We Leave at First Light
by Alias424
Summary: 'Me and her...' She jabs a thumb in Maura's general direction. 'We're nothing. Not anymore.' She almost has herself convinced.
1. We Leave at First Light

**A/N: First of a multi-part story. I'm trying out something in a slightly darker direction than I have previously, but don't worry, there should be a bit of Jane/Maura lightness eventually.**  
**Feedback is always appreciated, and thanks so much for reading!**

* * *

Blood. The darkness and brightness and itchiness of it. The droplets and streams as it refuses to stop flowing—the crust and flakes as it dries along smears and edges.

Usually it's clues and evidence, DNA and smudged fingerprints. Right now she doesn't care about any of that—and neither does anyone else.

She's never been so fucking grateful for blood in her life.

_(It's the sounds that get her more than anything. The ones she's can't stop hearing even though she's never actually heard them. The rustle of sheets against skin—and skin and more skin. The swish of silken hair, the feel of it impossibly audible.)_

Pain sparks suddenly and returns to a dull, throbbing heartbeat, but Jane refuses to let it show—she can still control that, at least, and that's something. Cases don't hold her attention anymore, not fully. She's let herself get careless, let sounds and images creep into work and sleep and sports and anything else that should hold as a distraction.

But the blood—the blood helps her stay more focused than she has been in weeks. The too-hard shove from Korsak (or was it Frost?) that landed her headfirst against the brick corner of a building was actually a blessing in disguise. Fantastic, really.

Right now, it's just about all that's keeping her grounded. Almost.

And that's almost enough.

_(The soft smack of a palm, out-stretched fingers grasping. Soft breaths riding that fine line between gasps and regular breathing. The quiet popping as rounded lips lose suction—) _

But there's the itch of blood as it trickles down her cheek and drips onto her collar. Thank God.

Jane doesn't bother to wipe it away.

Backup had arrived quickly, with bristling authority and flashing lights. Now words like _hearing_ and _off her rocker _and _mandatory leave_ puff into the cold air on cloudy breaths.

She's surrounded by grim faces—Korsak, Cavanaugh, the parents of those teenagers in the wrong place at the wrong time. Only worse than that are the overly cheerful ones—Frost and Frankie trying to keep a lightness, the paramedics and patrol officers sharing a joke about the quick downward spiral of the great Jane Rizzoli.

_(—the sucking pressure as they gain it back again. There's always always a gentle sigh here—so close to a moan she can practically taste it. Like peppermint and coffee, vanilla and lavender, something sticky-sweet like honey, and….)_

'Detective?'

Fuck, not again.

The young EMT either has a death wish or deserves a medal for valour. He approaches her for the umpteenth time in the last half hour—though at least now he's learned enough to stay at arm's length. Jane snatches the gauze pad he holds out to her and manages to somehow firmly but kindly snarl that she won't be going to the hospital, thank you very much, and if he comes near her one more time, he'll be the one in need of an ambulance.

That does the trick, and he retreats. He'll complain to his counterparts, of course—probably say something about how it must be that crazy bitch's time of the month and they'll all have a good laugh at her expense. But he won't bother her again, and that's all that matters.

Jane dabs at the wound on her forehead, brushing the blood out of her eyes but doing little else, and when her arm falls to her side and the gauze lands in a puddle on the asphalt, she doesn't bend to retrieve it.

_(Worst of all is the escalation—near-hyperventilation as breaths race with heartbeats, and the thousand-and-one variations on _oh, oh, ohhhhh…._) _

The car she's leaning against dips. Jane jumps, momentarily flailing, and mutters a curse.

Frankie moves in close, but is careful not to touch her. 'You know everyone here's giving you like a 10-foot radius, right?'

He's not wrong. Even Frost and Korsak stand at a distance, only venturing the odd glance over. Jane simply shrugs. 'They know what's good for them then.'

'It could be worse.' Her brother gestures to the scene around them. 'You could've actually _shot_ one of those kids instead of just waving your gun around like a madman.'

Her heart feels like it's dropped into her stomach at the thought.

They'd been in the middle of a stakeout, following a tipoff about the possible whereabouts of their latest murderer. And all she'd seen was a pair of impossibly high heels and slightly curling golden hair—the tall, dark figure yanking the woman into the even darker alley—the seemingly metallic glint between them.

Jane had had a split second to make a decision. And that's all it had taken for her to snap.

'Leave it, Frankie.' She keeps her voice low and dangerous. If she doesn't, it will break.

She's tried everything: kept conversations clipped and monosyllabic—strictly based on cases, and confined to texts and emails whenever possible—avoided any kind of eye and body contact. She'd even managed to solve the last two cases while avoiding the morgue entirely.

It's only made everything worse.

'Of course, it doesn't help that both their parents are hot-shot politicians,' Frankie continues, 'or that you completely blew your cover and a suspect got away.'

She doesn't have anything for this. Not a dark look, not a quip or even a gesture. The silence speaks more than any of them.

The glint was nothing more dangerous than a cell phone. The dark figure a 17-year-old boy still in his school uniform, his panicked face boyish and full of acne. The high heels and golden curls belonged to a sparkly-lip-gloss-wearing, gum-snapping 16-year-old, who was more concerned about having her foreplay cut short than she was at the possibility of a gunshot wound.

Not a gun or a knife. Not a serial killer. And distinctly _not _Maura. Just a couple of teenagers who'd managed to sneak out the back door of the fancy restaurant their parents had dragged them to in favour of more teenager-like pursuits. Like playing hard to get. Making out. Taking pictures.

She's losing it. Or has she lost it already? Either way, she doesn't know what to do.

Frankie's voice is soft, the teasing gone. 'It could happen to anyone, Janie.'

Empty words to fill space. It's what is said in situations like this—when the truth hurts too much and there's a 95% chance Jane will go for the jugular if she hears it.

'Not to me.'

'No one's perfect.'

It's a cue so fucked up it's wonderful.

An overzealous officer accidentally lets loose the squawk of a siren. Instinct kicks in as Jane's eyes flick toward the sound, and Maura appears in the flashing blue of police lights. Jane blinks, and this time the image remains: Maura Isles, calmly surveying the small sea of people crammed into the alley, her forehead creased with worry.

Shit.

This is the last thing Jane needs, makes it too easy for reality and fantasy to intermingle. The only consolation is that at least Mr. Perfect doesn't appear to be hanging onto the doctor's elbow—Maura's latest fashionable accessory that she seems to think goes with everything. Jane tries to satisfy herself with that as she looks away—at wet pavement, at her shoes, her blood-stained hands, anything.

_If I can't see you, you can't see me. _

The mantra that doesn't hold. Maura's still far enough way that the distance feels safe, and Jane lets her eyes flick back, lingering. It's been awhile since she's done more than glance in the doctor's direction, and Jane has to remind herself to breathe.

_In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, you're so fucking hopeless._

It's in this moment that Maura finds her, and the feeling is something like lightning. Not being struck, but the crack and the sizzle, the scent of ozone, and the breathless snap of electricity in the air.

Jesus Christ.

That woman.

It's like she does this on purpose—showing up all perfectly poised and coiffed and fucking beautiful, sending Jane's already shoddy defences crashing.

She spends sleepless nights carefully packing emotion and truth and vulnerability tightly together and constructing a fortress around them. Brick after brick of affirmations and excuses—_you don't need this… you don't need her… if she wants to be happy with that fucker, let her… just stop it, Rizzoli_—hoping that next time she's forced to face the other woman, everything will hold.

But then she hears or sees or _thinks_ Maura and she might as well have built her barricades out of playing cards, spun sugar, and straw.

Maura huffs and puffs and blows her way through all of them—but with a quiet grace and in heels and just by existing. Thoughts twist until they're _yes_ and _do_ and _want_ and _need_, and Jane feels as helpless and useless as the lead in a romantic comedy, pining away for someone she doesn't want (or is it can't have?).

She hates it.

Really she does. The more she repeats it, the closer she is to having herself fully convinced.

Across the alley, Maura makes the first move, her wave tentative. Jane doesn't return it.

Frankie follows his sister's gaze, his hesitation palpable as he gears himself up for the million dollar question, finally letting it out in a rush. 'What's going on with you and Maura lately?'

'Nothing.' Jane shakes her head to clear it, wincing at the pain, the flush in her cheeks turning quickly to anger and _what gives her the right?_ 'What the hell is she doing here anyway? No one died.'

'I called her. You two've been so weird lately, I thought if you'd just—'

'You thought wrong.' Quiet careful rage, simmering now, but threatening to bubble over. If everyone would just leave her alone, let her think…. 'And you should learn to mind your own damn business.'

'You're family, Jane. Both of you. How is that _not_ my business?'

'Taking lessons on nosiness from Ma, huh?' The words hurl themselves out before she can stop them.

'Hey, watch it.' Frankie shoots her a dark look—he's more immune to her moods and fire than almost anyone. 'I don't know what's up with you lately, but you've been a real….' He trails off uncertainly, as if his mother is just around the corner waiting to box him on the ears for calling his sister names.

Jane stands slowly, drawing herself to her full height and ignoring the sparks in the corners of her vision as she towers over him and leans in menacingly. 'Go on. I dare you.'

'Jesus, Janie.' Frankie tips back, raising his hands in surrender—Jane only realises her own hands have balled into fists when she sees her brother eye them uneasily. 'I'm just trying to help. Ma too.'

'Well butt out.' Jane loosens her fists, the knuckles white already. 'Me and her?' She jabs a thumb in Maura's general direction. 'We're nothing. Not anymore. And the sooner the two of you can get that into your thick skulls, the better. Got it?'

'Yeah, yeah, whatever you say.'

It's not very convincing, and she intends to push him into something more solid. She has to.

'Please, Frankie?'

Wait, what?

She's pleading now, doesn't want to be, but can't seem to stop the word from repeating, rising an octave and cracking. 'Please. Just… leave it.'

Everything is suddenly prickling with agitation, all the fight gone from her and seeping into flight instead. It's the wrong moment for snippets of Maura's voice to breeze over her. She's gotten as far as Frost and Korsak—their hurried conversation is low, but Jane can still catch her inflection on the vowels: long _e_'s and short _o_'s and that particular stretch of an _a_ that has only ever been part of—

'Jane?' Frankie catches hold of her elbow, but she shakes him off.

She needs to get out of here.

The earlier order of _Don't you dare move, Rizzoli_ is forgotten. Reprimands and consequences can wait. She doesn't care anymore. Can't remember if she ever did. All she knows is that right now she needs to get away from here and _her_ and everyone before she comes completely unravelled.

'Janie?'

Her phone is buzzing. She doesn't look at it, only responding to her brother's concern with an absent, 'Tell Ma to stop calling me,' as she surveys her surroundings. The logistics are unfortunate—there's no way out without passing by either Maura or someone with the authority to sit her in the back of a patrol car so she physically can't leave.

'Jane, wait. Just talk to her and….'

But she's already gone. Grasping at her last big of swagger, she struts across the alley, careful to avoid any sort of contact as she breezes past Maura. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the doctor freeze mid-sentence, but Maura lets her go without a word.

Jane's glad for that, at least. Weeks of the weird push-pull of _I can't be near you (because it hurts too fucking much)_ and _please for the love of God fuck me hard and fast against the wall _have led her to the only logical conclusion.

She hates Maura Isles. Absolutely hates her.

It's easier to do that than to want what she can't have.


	2. When the House Is Still Quiet

**A/N: You guys are awesome. Thanks to all who read, followed, and reviewed. Maura actually does more than just appear in this chapter, which is always a bonus. Here goes...**

* * *

Her apartment is silent.

She paces (and drinks), mops at the cut on her head with a dirty dish towel, ignoring both the musty scent of it and the angry buzzing of her cell phone. She would turn it off, but she likes the interruption—it sounds like anger and urgency, breaks the images and fuels the lonely arguments she's having in her head.

_Jesus Christ, Ma. If I didn't want to talk to you the first sixteen times you called, the seventeenth isn't going to change anything. You should learn to mind your own fucking business._

The buzzing she can handle. It's the silence in between that's terrifying.

That's where she finds Maura making doe eyes at Mr. Perfect, the excitement in her voice as she shares details about her second and third and ninth dates, her whole face lighting up in a way that Jane hates and loves and is so fucking confused about that she can't even breathe.

(That's where she sees Maura's breasts and legs and the way her neck flows into her shoulder—all nothing but bare skin and goosebumps and begging to be touched.)

Jane could handle the single dates, the parade of fuck buddies that would march in and out of her friend's life every few months to scratch her latest itch. But as the customary three dates stretched to weeks and weekends away and months, Jane slowly came unravelled—the tug of a single thread somewhere along her navel, and now she stands exposed and bare and with a string of _whys _and _what ifs_ and _hows_ around her.

She thought her hints were a lot less subtle.

She thought Maura knew.

She thought they were just a few touches and silly-stupid grins and fucking looks that may has well been naked and writhing for all their intensity.

She thought Maura could feel it too.

Her third (or was it fourth by now?) bottle of beer finished—the end of it dribbling down her front with a too-quick swig—Jane reaches out to place it by the others, deciding at the last second that the clink of the bottles would be far less satisfying than the crunch of breaking glass. With a flick of the wrist, the bottle arcs beautifully across the room, landing with a crash somewhere in the kitchen.

The clamour quiets something within her, but only just, and she's at the point of reaching out for another bottle to send flying when she hears it. No muffled greeting, no knocking, just the turning of a key and the soft clicking of an opening door.

If she thinks she can just waltz in here, and give one of those _hello, sailor_ smiles and….

_Fuck._

She can. And that's exactly the problem.

The close-up is dangerous and electrifying, and Jane feels stupid and slack-jawed in comparison.

Maura's in leather—and she looks like sex and it doesn't seem fair.

Jane is a caged animal—feral and looking for any way out. It's second nature now to make her voice bite and snarl with a few simple words. 'Entering a room without knocking must be a new social low for you. What would Miss Manners say?'

'We both know you wouldn't have answered the door.'

'Ooh, and now we're guessing. How the mighty have fallen.'

The outburst fails to elicit a reaction, and Jane fumes as she crosses to the kitchen, crunching over broken glass and rooting through the fridge for another beer. She takes her time, popping off the top and swigging almost half of the bottle before returning to the couch. The expected lecture on alcohol and head injuries and why the two shouldn't mix never comes.

Still, Jane stares, waiting. It's a mistake.

Maura is fucking mindboggling—by the laws of science and nature and goddamn perfection, she shouldn't exist.

Yet here she stands, looking all legs in her dark skinny jeans and impossibly high heels as she leans coolly against the doorjamb with folded arms, chest rising and falling as she breathes. There's a point on her neck where the skin just kisses the leather collar of her jacket and melts into a shadow. Jane wants to lick just there—quick flicks and long strokes and circles—has always had this wild, unfounded idea that it would send the doctor's hips writhing beneath her.

It's a theory she's come close to testing on exactly six occasions.

Maura frowns and uncrosses an arm, brings her fingers up to that spot as if to hide it, her bottom lip just catching in her teeth before releasing. The beer in Jane's hand tips, the contents spilling onto her jeans.

'Shit!' Jane rights the bottle, shaking the beer off her hand. 'If I wanted to see you. I would've picked up my phone one of the million times you called.'

Her phone buzzes again, as if to make her point.

Maura simply quirks an eyebrow. 'That's mostly your mother. I gave up calling you half an hour ago.'

'You should've given up on the idea of coming over. Saved yourself some time.' Her seat on the sofa suddenly feels too close, too closed in. Jane stands, pacing to the farthest corner of the room and back again, her hands in tight fists.

'Seventeen days, Jane.'

This stops her, her back to Maura. She doesn't turn. 'What?'

'You've spoken more words to me just now than you have collectively in seventeen days.'

Jane sucks in a breath, every muscle tensing. 'Anyone else would take the hint.'

Anyone else wouldn't have been counting.

She hears Maura cross the room, but still the feel of the woman right behind her is unexpected. Jane shivers as a soft sigh hits right at the base of her neck, flinching when a hand connects to her chin to tilt it, fingertips tapping around the wound on her forehead.

'I'm here now,' Maura's voice wraps around her like an embrace, and Jane finds herself sinking into it (into _her_, into everything). 'And you need someone to look at this laceration. Frost and Korsak said you refused medical treatment.'

'I'm fine.' She pulls away hurriedly before she can lose her resolve. 'It's nothing.'

'It's been over an hour and you're still bleeding. This needs sutures, Jane.'

Yes, doctor. No, doctor. But _just_ doctor—nothing more.

'Just leave it, dammit.' She hedges, trying to get away, a flailing arm accidentally connecting with Maura's hand, which somehow makes everything worse. 'And give me your key.'

Maura melts before her. It's blink-and-you'll-miss-it, but Jane has missed (almost) nothing about this woman to this point, and the subtleties are blaring sirens and neon signs. There's the slow blink and the emptiness in her eyes once she reopens them. The way her breath catches and shudders. The trembling of her bottom lip for just a fraction of a second.

They breathe into the silence, the few seconds elastic, stretching to seem like hours.

Finally there's a quiet, 'Why do you do this? Why do you _always _do this?'

'Do what?'

But it's only to buy time—she already knows.

'Try to push everyone away.'

It's simple—and the truth—but in the inflection, _everyone _becomes _me_, and the wave of guilt Jane feels wash over her is sharp and unexpected. Right now, at almost equal parts anger and alcohol, she wants fire and resentment, reds and blacks and shouting. She doesn't quite know what to do with this sudden spectrum of sadness—lonely blues and chilled violets and Maura with a creased brow.

Because more than anything, it makes her want to reach out to the woman she's vowed not to touch. To swipe a thumb to smooth those forehead wrinkles, cradle her head in both her hands and whisper words of safety and apology. To make her feel good and better and best of all, and to wrap her in softness, only letting any roughness enter the equation when she pushes her down onto the sofa and….

'I've been patient, Jane.' Maura's voice is a white flag after a long battle. 'But sometimes… sometimes you make it very difficult to keep coming back.'

Jane speaks without thinking, a last ditch attempt in the haze of things like red and hatred and _him _with _her_—and it's both just what she wants to say and the farthest thing from it.

'Why _do_ you then?'

It just occurs to her, as she hits the emphasis and curves her voice into a question, that it's the sort of thing that marks the beginning of the end. It's not as satisfying as she had imagined.

Maura makes a small strangled sound, like words catching in her throat. She reaches into her bag, pulls out some sterile wipes and tape and gauze, placing them delicately on the nearest surface. 'Clean and dress that wound as best you can. The rate of infection increases greatly after….' But her voice is hollow and she can't seem to find the statistic, so she shakes her head slightly and turns to the door.

There's a pause here, on the threshold. Just enough so that Jane's heart leaps just a little, trying to hope, knowing better than to. But then there's the jingling of keys—growing louder as one is removed from the ring.

_No._

It's in the clatter of the keys.

_No. _

It's in the small hush that follows.

_No._

It's in the hollow clack of that single key hitting the table.

_No. Please, no._

Jane jumps up, ignores the fuzzy blackness around the edges of her vision, the way her stomach lurches at the sudden movement, even the smack of her shin against the coffee table.

She grabs at something, any part of Maura that is real and there and solid—it's a forearm, and Jane just registers the way the other woman cringes, the smear of her own blood that glistens on the dark leather as she pulls and her hand slips and Maura turns.

The rest is a fucked up fairy-tale.

Maura, backed against the door, hard enough that she loses her breath with an _oomph. _Jane, inhaling it, fingers wrapped tightly around biceps—only a split-second before her mouth finds Maura's, harsh and hot and pleading.

It could do with a touch of gentleness, but there's really none to spare—if she doesn't anchor them both, here and now, one of them will surely float away.

The kiss is rough and aggressive, and Jane can't help herself, trying to press every inch of herself against every inch of this woman finally _finally _in her arms. Maura moans, a beautiful sound, and her mouth opens under Jane's pleading tongue and for just that moment, everything is okay (and perfect) and peaches and cream.

It's the moment that's the problem.

By definition, it has an end. A much too quick one.

Because then Maura's pushing her away. Determined.

And Jane feels like she's lost a map she never had in a first place.

'I should go.' The firmness of it is chilling. Maura still refuses to make eye contact, and that almost more than her words, feels like a rusted knife straight to the gut and twisted.

Jane Rizzoli has always prided herself on never needing anything or anyone. She can run as fast, shoot as straight, and tackle a suspect as swiftly as half the boys at the station—and even better than the other half.

But right here, right now, she's pretty sure she'll break into a million tiny Humpty Dumpty pieces if Maura Isles steps outside that door (and leaves her).

'Maura….'

That part's easy, and it's enough for hesitation—Maura has the door halfway open, but moves no further. Jane's blood fingerprinted on her cheek forms an almost perfect question mark, and Jane has the strange urge to laugh, knows it would be shrill and wrong and crazy.

Because _I'm sorry_ doesn't seem like enough and _help me_ is too much and _I'm such an asshole _is the truth but doesn't belong here. She doesn't trust herself not to break—doesn't trust her own shrapnel not to hit Maura as she explodes. And she needs to get out of here almost as much as she needs to keep talking but words have turned fiddly and upside down.

'Maura,' she tries again, and just when it seems like she'll never say anything else, it bursts forth all at once. 'Let's go away somewhere. Anywhere. I'll grab a change of clothes. We'll stop and get you a bag. And we can just….'

It fizzles, leaving so much unsaid hanging in the air.

_Please._

_Don't leave me._

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**A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to hear what you thought.**


	3. Just Act Casual

**A/N: This chapter fought me, and I ended up putting pieces of two chapters together and then completely reworking them, so I hope it turned out okay.**

* * *

The pause is like a living thing—kicking and screaming, demanding time and attention.

She needs an answer. She needs to breathe.

Maura hasn't moved. Or at least her feet haven't, which amounts to the same thing. Jane finds this oddly settling, the stillness of the heels, the slight twitch of an ankle that shivers up a leg. She follows the pinprick of movement: ankle to calf, calf to knee, knee to thigh. She makes sure to blink so her eyes jump to hip and waist and torso, (another blink), shoulder, neck, chin….

(She hears Maura whisper Latin names and muscles and connecting tissue. She knows Maura hasn't said a word.)

Finally, she reaches Maura's eyes, only to find them already locked on her own. There's a beat—so many of them today, so much caution and hurt following anger.

Only then does she get the soft response—not a yes or no, but a further question: 'Where do you want to go?'

Jane hasn't thought this far ahead. She shakes her head. 'I don't know.'

But even in that uncertainty, every muscle in her body relaxes, and she hobbles to the couch and sinks into it before her legs give out beneath her. Shrugging, she ventures a look up again, and repeats it: 'I don't know.'

Maura nods, matter-of-fact now. The transformation from almost-broken to take-charge is instantaneous, but there are hairline fractures already. It won't hold forever. 'North, South, or West?'

(Jane can still see every way she's hurt the other woman in strange and nondescript places: the flutter of eyelashes, the parting of lips, the way her weight shifts from one foot to the other.)

'What about East?' She says it just to keep talking.

'Due east? The waterfront is only a mile away, and although we would hit land twice more in that direction before coming to open water….' The soft half-smile at the end of it is everything. 'We wouldn't get very far.'

'Anywhere. It doesn't matter.'

That much is true.

There's another nod in response. (They're speaking volumes now without saying much of anything.) Of course that's a _yes, _but also _It'll be okay_ and _I'll take care of this (and you)_.

Maura reaches out as if to lay a hand on Jane's shoulder, but seems to think better of it, snapping her hand back to smooth down her jacket. 'Stay here.'

(Jane is almost certain that if Maura had touched her just then, Jane would have held onto her tightly and never let go. She's not sure whether that would be problem or solution.)

She watches Maura retreat into her bedroom—the soft sashay of her hips is hypnotic, should be criminal. She listens to the muffled sounds of Maura's voice on the phone and the opening and closing of drawers. It's not long before she returns, one of Jane's bags in hand—and Jane has the sudden feeling of being seven and watching her mother pack her bag for summer camp.

The bag is placed by the door, and Maura picks up the bloody dishtowel, sniffing it and making a face. She struts into the kitchen now, finding a clean towel in a drawer and wetting it. Jane doesn't say a word as Maura cleans the dried blood off her face and hands, only stopping her friend when she pulls something from her bag that looks suspiciously like a suture kit.

'Shouldn't I get some painkillers for this?' Jane grits her teeth, trying to lean away as Maura takes her chin in one hand, brandishing a needle in the other. 'Or at least some more beer?'

'I think you've consumed more than enough alcohol already.'

It's the way she says it—the hurt and confusion that shows only in the corners of her eyes, the slight arch of an eyebrow. Jane acquiesces. She's always been putty in Maura's hands—even when she'd tried so hard not to be.

Maura stitches with a quiet grace.

The repetition of it is soothing. The way she flicks and pulls and ties knots like she's plucking at harp strings. Her forehead crinkled and eyes narrowed in careful concentration. The tip of a tongue just peeks out the corner of her mouth, so close to Jane's as she leans in for another suture.

It's almost like anaesthetic.

Jane closes her eyes.

When she opens them again, Maura's snapping off latex gloves and tidying her slight mess, admiring her handiwork with a curt nod. Jane brings a hand to her forehead without thinking. There's already a bandage covering the area. She wonders if it's possible that she'd fallen asleep.

Maura picks up their bags, taking one last look around the apartment, turning to Jane as if to ask, _Jo Friday?_

'Ma's. Or maybe Frankie's.' It's terrible that she can't remember. She's been working so late recently—she's never felt so utterly drained. 'Where are we going?'

'South.' Maura takes her arm with some hesitation, seems to let out a breath when Jane doesn't shake her off. 'And East.'

* * *

She dreams of streetlights that flicker like fireflies as they approach and retreat.  
Of highway signs that form an equation leading to Cape Cod.  
The crunch of a gravel driveway, and the scent of saltwater and low tide.

She dreams of Maura.  
In profile—and a dance of lights and shadows—behind the wheel.  
The sadness and so-softness of _I'll be down the hall. If you need me._

She dreams of padding down the hallway in bare feet, of cracking open that door.

The darkness inside soft with sleep.  
Maura is warm and safe and everything as she wraps her arms around her.

She dreams of padding down the hallway in bare feet, of cracking open that door.  
Moonlight spills through and increases.  
No one's there.

She tosses and turns, half-sleeps and keeps waking. She hugs the empty pillow beside her.

* * *

Jane wakes with itching eyes and a dry throat, feeling as groggy as if she hadn't slept at all. Her head twinges and throbs. Her stomach does cartwheels with bent legs and handstands that tip over.

She tosses the pillow aside and takes a moment to remember.

Head wound. Alcohol. Maura. The drive. The Cape. This house. Sleep.

Hopefully in that order.

She blinks, finds that she doesn't keel over when she tries to stand, and inspects the room—the soft earth tones and muted greens Maura's chosen for this house Jane didn't even know she had. A peek behind the curtain reveals frosted sea grass and a path leading to sand. The sunlight is strong in that misleading November way where it looks warmer than it really is.

It's late morning already. Her phone hasn't rung once, and Maura's made no effort to wake her.

Finding the bag Maura had left by the door, Jane roots through the items the other woman has packed her. Her favourite jeans and a soft, faded sweatshirt among several shirts and pairs of pants. And at the bottom, beneath a row of neatly-folded socks, a varying collection of bras and underwear.

Jesus. Maura had been in her underwear drawer.

Jane tries not to wonder if there's anything behind the selections she's made, or if she'd just grabbed what was nearest and cleanest.

(She tries not to wonder if she'd looked at the pieces the same way Jane herself eyes those bits of lace and the rare bra-strap that peek out beneath Maura's outfits—wondering how they'd feel between fingertips and lips and teeth.)

Grabbing the necessary items, Jane retreats towards the adjoining bathroom. Her mouth tastes as bad as her head feels. Clicking on the bathroom light reveals a brand new toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, a tiny bottle of mouthwash, and even some floss laid neatly out on the side of the sink. Beside them sits a large bottle of painkillers.

Of course.

She sponges herself down with a washcloth, cleaning as neatly and quickly as she can before pulling on her clothes and finishing her morning routine. She spends at least five minutes standing by the door to the hallway, her hand on the handle, deciding whether to confront or escape or hide.

Neither seem like very good options. And the pull to see and hear (to smell, to touch, to fucking taste) Maura is much too strong after so much avoidance.

All the doors on the ground floor seem to lead to bedrooms and bathrooms, so Jane heads up the staircase, following the muted sound of conversation. Maura is leaning against a kitchen counter, her back to Jane, cradling her cell phone to her ear. She turns the second Jane steps fully into the room, her smile radiant, as though nothing (or everything) had happened between them.

'Jane, would you please say something into the phone so your mother knows you're not dead?'

'I'm not dead, Ma,' she repeats obediently, adding an eye-roll and pushing the phone back to Maura.

Maura doesn't let her go far, grabbing Jane's wrist to keep her close before pulling up the corners of the bandage on her head. 'Her wound is doing well. No signs of infection. I'm looking at it right now…. I can photograph it if you don't—'

'You're _not_ taking a picture of my gross stitches and sending it to my mother.'

'Your sutures are done almost perfectly, Jane,' Maura whispers loudly, covering the end of the phone. 'I took great care to ensure they were of equal size and spacing.'

This is an exchange they would have had weeks ago—something edging on argument but laced with teasing—and Jane doesn't quite know what to do with it now.

'No, I'm sorry, Angela. I was talking to Jane…. Yes, I'm sure she is.'

Saved by her mother. That marks a change.

Jane explores the upstairs while Maura is trapped on the phone—her subtle hints to end the conversation obviously going unheeded. Its open plan is much like Maura's Boston home, but the full-length windows with the view to the sea are something to behold. Jane opens the French doors to step out onto the balcony, the frigid air crisp and refreshing.

'This is why I bought this place.' Maura is hunched against the cold, her arms folded and her hair dancing in the wind. The colour is rising in her cheeks already.

It's all too much. (And old habits die hard.)

'Needed someplace to escape with your boy-toy?'

'I've had this property for years.' Maura had been close enough to brush against her—now she's more than a few steps away. 'Long before I met you, in fact.'

'So you're just starting a property empire like your parents, then.' Her heart is wailing, her head screaming at her to stop, and still her mouth continues. 'One of the few Isles family traditions.'

Her fucking mouth. Her mother always said it would get her into trouble. There was never enough soap in the world.

'There's a lot you don't know about me, Jane.' Maura is cool and quiet, a dangerous combination. 'There's a lot you don't ask.'

_And a lot __**you**__ don't tell __**me**__._

It's in Maura's guarded stance, the way her eyes flick down to Jane's lips and then back again. The woman is hurting and angry, doesn't understand what's going on, and yet Jane knows Maura would still do anything for her. All Jane has to do is say the word.

She never does. Or at least not the right ones.

'Is there coffee?'

(She hopes the tone, at least, carries a hint of _I'm sorry_, even if she can't get out the words. And God, this woman's given her so much leeway already.)

'Yes.' Maura points inside to the two steaming mugs on the counter. 'But that's about all there is, I'm afraid. Let me go finish getting ready and we'll go out to eat.'

It sounds innocuous enough. Except for fact and pattern and _knowing_. Going out to eat with Maura Isles at 11:30 on a weekend morning, usually only means one thing.

Brunch.

The meal of socialites and gooey couples and large groups of friends. Jane doesn't think she can handle the doe-eyes and laughter and the women dripping with diamonds who turn their noses up at the simple omelette. It's all barely tolerable on a normal weekend, never mind today.

'Maura—'

'I'm not arguing with you about this, Jane. We're going.'

The _about this_ has just enough emphasis that Jane has a feeling there will in fact be arguing later—and she knows she has it coming. But they've had a long night (and even longer early hours of the morning), and now is for food and putting in a proper public appearance in order to get it.

Maybe she does belong among the brunch-eating couples after all—as the half that had to be dragged there and only agrees out of hunger (and a desire to not sleep on the couch that night).

Her stomach growls.

Fine.

'I'm not changing my clothes!' Jane calls down the stairs, just biting back _and you can't make me! _She doesn't care where they're going—Maura's going to have to put up with her sweatshirt and jeans.

Somehow it seems like a compromise. Giving in to Maura just enough but not completely—she's not ready for that yet. Not when everything's half-built out of tinker-toys and she's still waiting for it all to come crashing down.

But then Maura's response trips up the stairs back to her, 'You don't have to! You look—fine.'

The pause is barely-there (and gapes like the Grand Canyon), leaving far too much room for imagination.

Jane sips her coffee, wondering what she's gotten herself into and whether it's too late to make a run for it.

And if she'd even be able to if she had the chance.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading! Reviews are always much appreciated. **


	4. Like You Do This All the Time

'Breakfast served all day,' Jane reads. The wooden sign is faded, the paint chipped and slightly peeling. 'We're going here? Really?'

She's hopeful, but Maura must read it as disappointment.

'It's unorthodox, I know, but technically the foods we associate with breakfast _can_ be eaten at any time of day.'

'No, I know. It's just… not what I expected.'

'In fact, in most Asian countries, rice is a staple of almost all meals. And in many parts of Europe, you'd be more likely to find sliced meats and cheeses on your breakfast table than bacon and eggs.'

The door opens with the jingle of a small bell, and Jane finds herself nearly salivating at the smell of fried food and strong coffee.

No pretentious maître d' or string quartet. No fancy table cloths and napkins that cost more than her bedspread. It's the kind of place that looks like it had been built by the seaside sometime in the 50s and hasn't had much updating since. Red vinyl booths, laminated menus, even a jukebox in the corner. Where you can get a full meal for under five dollars and still have food left on your plate.

It's the kind of place Jane herself would have chosen—where the Rizzoli kids have eaten all their lives.

Their entrance has drawn the attention of everyone in the little place—just when Maura's geographic gastronomy lesson has reached Great Britain and Ireland and the differences between black and white pudding.

It's a small off-season crowd, very obviously locals only, and Jane has the prickling feeling of a slowly drawled _you folks aren't from around here. _Maura quiets suddenly, waving at the gruff cook looking back at them from where he's busily scrambling eggs. His spatula freezes as he nods in their direction, and he pauses just long enough to crack open a side door and grumble, 'Doc's here.'

Well, that's interesting.

Maura leads her to a table by the window, a hand to the small of Jane's back, but before Jane has time to revel in the touch, she finds herself plonked down on one side of the booth, a menu in her hands.

'I'm not really hungry.'

'When's the last time you ate?'

'Lunch yesterday.' Jane folds her arms. 'I think.'

'You're ordering something if I have to do it for you.'

'You can make me order something, but you can't make me eat it.'

This gets Jane _that_ look. The one with raised eyebrows and the tilt of a head that says _watch me_. And there they sit, crossed arms and arched eyebrows—a good old-fashioned Rizzoli-Isles standoff. Maura's phone chirps with a message—her fifth this morning—but she ignores it. Jane has a feeling she may very well be eating a hearty breakfast after all.

'Doctor Maura!' The voice booms so suddenly that Jane jumps in her seat. 'You've been away too long, young lady!'

An older couple approaches with impressive speed, given their combined ages are probably hovering somewhere around 150. The man shakes his cane at them as he shouts across the diner, the woman hushing him gently with a hand on his elbow.

'Shush now, Tom. You'll break the eardrums of everyone in here,' she says directly into the ear of the man beside her before turning to embrace Maura, who had crossed to meet them halfway. 'It's so good to see you, dear.'

Jane watches with interest as Maura Isles, who proclaims to not very much like hugging, gives and receives them freely. And these aren't the simple elegant embraces and cheek kisses she's seen Maura use with Constance, but full-on bear hugs that squeeze out all oxygen and almost crack ribs. Somehow that ancient and deaf man nearly manages to lift Maura off her toes—and there's a small squealing noise that sounds suspiciously like a giggle.

'Young Tom came to me this morning and said you'd sent him one of those text message things late last night,' the man shouts, placing an arm around Maura's shoulders and squeezing again. 'I almost didn't believe him. You know you kids and your technology—never trusted it. But now here you are, pretty as ever.'

He has Maura at arm's length now, beaming down on her like a proud papa, and Jane half expects the usually refined doctor to give him a childlike twirl so he can see her at all angles. She's innocent, at ease, hair and eyes and smile all shining.

Jane feels a bit breathless at the sight, her fingers and toes all pins and needles. (She wants to catch Maura's hand and dip and twirl and tango her across the diner. She wants to be the one to make her eyes shine and her throaty laughter turn to giggles.)

It's here that the woman catches her eye, offering a quirky wave and warm smile. Jane quickly closes her mouth and looks away, pretending to pore over the menu—hoping no one notices that she actually has it upside down.

'Who's your friend, dear?' the woman asks gently.

'I'll be damned! Doctor Maura's brought us a friend!'

'Tom, Mary,' Maura leads them over to the booth, and Jane stands, tripping over her own feet, 'I'd like you to meet Jane.'

'Nice to meet you both.' Jane sticks out her hand and tries to smile, suddenly wishing she had changed into something nicer or at least taken the time to run a comb through her hair.

'Jean?' Tom takes her hand, nearly pulling her arm off as he shakes it.

'Jane!' Mary shouts into his ear, then to Maura. 'This isn't _the_ Jane, is it?'

Maura nods, flushing a bit, and Jane finds herself engulfed in a hug of epic grandmotherly proportions. 'The famous Jane. I was wondering when our Doctor Maura was going to bring you by.'

Jane doesn't know what to say to this. She's never been one for proper etiquette, of course, but she knows enough not to mention anything along the lines of _I've never fucking heard of you or any of this in my life but exactly what do you mean by __**the **__Jane?_

'Oh, so this is _that _Jane! What was that handshake for, missy? You're practically family!' Tom takes his turn to hug her now, the force of it nearly pushing all the air from her lungs.

'Tom, you'll squeeze that poor girl to death! Come now, they came in here to eat, so let's let them get on with it.' She gestures for them both to take their seats and then pats Maura on the shoulder. 'I'll send Young Tom by to take your order.'

Somehow Maura brightens even further at the thought. Jane tries to ignore it, starting work on a pyramid of creamers and sugar packets once they're left to their own devices. 'I didn't know I was so famous. Should I autograph a picture of myself for them to hang on the wall? Maybe take a photo with the cook?'

Maura tries to shrug it off—Jane doesn't miss the way the colour rises just a bit in her cheeks, on the tip of her nose. 'You're part of my life. I must have mentioned you at some point.'

'Maybe they can make a plaque for this booth. Something like _The famous Jane sat here._'

'Stop it.' But she's smiling—trying not to, but she is nonetheless.

'Do you think they'll name a sandwich after me? Or a breakfast special, I'm not picky.'

'You're impossible.'

_And you love it._

But it's important to avoid any mention of that particular _L _word. Especially in this moment where everything's starting to shine, almost rosy and sugar-coated. When all the pieces of Jane and Maura and _us _are so close to being back to where they belong (and just a few clicks from where Jane would like them to be).

'Hey, Maura,' Jane starts, all kidding aside now, 'Do you think—'

And then Maura's phone beeps again—Jane just catches the name that appears on the screen. Maura frowns at it, not bothering to read the message. It's so far from the dopey grin and absent hair-twirling that usually accompanies any contact with Mr. Perfect that Jane doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

'You were saying, Jane?' But her eyes haven't moved from the phone, the screen black now.

'Never mind.'

Maura stares out the window.

Jane tries to decide whether she can surreptitiously nab the extra creamers needed to complete her pyramid from the neighbouring booth. She's just about firm that the answer is probably no, when a drop-dead gorgeous man suddenly slides into the booth next to Maura and leans into her.

Maura flinches at first, but it doesn't take long for her smile widely, wrapping her arms around the man in greeting. 'Tom!'

Jane hates him almost immediately for (almost) no reason whatsoever.

'Stayed away from me long enough, didn't you?' he teases, elbowing her playfully.

There are little touches here and there. He all but presses his head to hers, flicks at her hair. She leans into him, puts a hand over his on the table.

'You know it wasn't on purpose.' It's very possible that Maura just fluttered her eyelashes like a teenager. 'I've just been so busy.'

Jane bristles, feeling like a third wheel on somebody's twentieth date—the happy couple would much rather be off somewhere canoodling and fucking but here they all are, pretending to be thrilled with the company. She thinks she might hyperventilate, doesn't like the idea at all.

'I can see that. Mom said you brought a lovely young lady with you.' He offers his hand out to Jane, his grip firm—she can't match it. 'Tom. Or Young Tom, if you ask my parents.'

'Hi.' And she has to clear her throat in the middle of it—it's a stellar instroduction.

'This is Jane,' Maura offers, her tone like she's talking about a shy two-year-old who can't be trusted to remember her own name.

'So you're the one who's been keeping Maura away from us, Jane.'

'No.' Maura is quick and flustered, but regains her composure easily. 'Well, I suppose so. We're friends.'

Jane can feel Tom's eyes on her, but she refuses to meet them. He probably thinks Maura broke her out of a mental hospital somewhere—or is performing a sort of charity outreach program for patients with massive head injuries. 'What can I get you two lovely ladies? The usual, Maur?'

Fuck, he's got a nickname for her and everything.

'Yes, please.'

'I'll just have toast and coffee.' Jane tries to be nonchalant—and to act like a human. 'Please.'

'Nonsense. Bring her the blueberry pancakes, Tom.'

Tom winks at Jane. 'I'll bring you that toast, too. And some bacon.' He jerks his thumb at Maura. 'She'll pretend to be content with her egg white omelette, but she's going to be after half of your pancakes. Coffees coming right up.'

Old Tom's voice booms from behind the closed kitchen door, the actual words unintelligible. Someone at a nearby table spills a drink, and there's a flurry of noise and activity. The bell on the door tinkles again, and the door slams shut with the wind.

Jane wants to take Maura's hand and hold it across the table. She doesn't.

'He seems awfully friendly.' There's that rage and sarcasm again, just when she thought she'd broken the habit.

'Mmm,' Maura agrees softly. 'Everyone here has always been very welcoming.'

'Young Tom especially.' She should stop there. She knows it, Maura knows it. And yet something takes over her. 'Or maybe it's that _you've_ been especially welcoming to him.'

'You know, you're right, Jane. I've invited him over for dinner on numerous occasions.' Maura leans in, and though her tone is still light, there's no mistaking the fact that she knows exactly what Jane is up to. 'And you know what I asked him to do every single time? Bring his husband with him.'

Maura nods to the front of the diner, and Jane turns to where Young Tom has his arms around the burly, bearded cook—the cook leaning so their heads press together before turning his full attention back to the griddle.

Maura doesn't offer up any more information. Jane doesn't ask any more questions.

Luckily the diner has fast service, and the food arrives almost immediately. Also luckily, everyone decides to leave them more or less alone.

Jane does little more than move food around her plate, cutting bites of pancake that never make it to her mouth—instead ending up on Maura's fork as she does indeed try to eat half of Jane's breakfast. Jane downs three cups of piping hot coffee in quick succession and nibbles at her toast.

The silence would be almost companionable—broken by squawking babies and the ripple of laughter from nearby tables—if it weren't so damn heart-breakingly awkward.

Maura reaches across the table to take something like her twelfth 'last bite.'

And that's when Jane sees it—in that final stretch of Maura's arm, her sleeve riding up just a little (and just enough).

A triangle of toast falls to the floor as her hand flies out to catch Maura's. Somewhere along the way, her elbow catches the syrup, a slow sticky puddle flowing onto the table and soaking into her sweatshirt.

She holds tight, so damn possessive of something that isn't (properly) hers.

'Jane!' Maura rights the syrup and struggles to reach for the napkin dispenser, roughly pulling her hand from Jane's. There's something like panic rising in her voice, as if spilled maple syrup is the worst thing in the world. 'Don't just sit there—help me with this!'

Jane doesn't move. 'What happened to your arm?'

Maura stops flinging napkins around the table, her expression impossible to read, her voice low. 'Not here, Jane.'

'Yes here, Maura. What happened to your arm?'

'We're not going to do this now,' Maura hisses. 'Everyone is watching.'

At this, everyone simultaneously tries not to. Forks clinking a bit too hard, voices rising a bit too loudly without saying anything substantial. It makes the silence that follows even more evident.

'Then when?' She wants to reach across the booth to the other woman, take her shoulders in her hands and shake sense into her, make Maura want her. She wants to— 'I _kissed_ you last night Maura, and you haven't mentioned it since.'

'Neither have you.' Maura is simultaneously ice and fire as she stares Jane down and points to the door. 'Outside. Now.'

They leave bags and jackets at the table, the chill outside bracing. The sidewalk doesn't provide much of a margin for space or privacy, and Jane doesn't bother moving more than a few feet past the door. They're still framed in the diner windows, a silent soap opera for all those within.

'What happened to your arm?' She knows the answer, but she's not giving in. She needs Maura to show her, needs her to say it. (She needs to go back in time and make it so none of this had ever happened.)

'You're making a scene, Jane,' Maura responds quietly, trying to give a reassuring nod to a woman with two small children passing on the sidewalk. 'Let's just go home and—'

'Damn right I'm making a scene if that's what it takes to get you to talk to me! And it's only going to get worse if you don't tell me what happened to your arm.'

'That's rich coming from someone who hasn't spoken to me in weeks.' Maura has her hands on her hips now, her rage slowly simmering even if her tone remains low. 'Tell me, Jane: how do you plan on making things worse, exactly?'

Jane swallows, shaken for just a moment by the quick transformation from calm to anger. Her hands twitch, reason fighting with the need to touch her, to grab and caress and soothe all at once. Angry Maura is a sight to behold. Dangerous yes, but confident beyond measure, and so incredibly sexy with that flush in her cheeks and that glint in her eye.

Maura's stare sizzles—Jane's brain is a fried egg, just enough of the yolk left uncooked to remind her to keep up with the conversation.

'The hard way. I'll make you take off your blazer and—'

Maura removes it herself, and Jane just manages to catch it when it's hurled in her direction. 'Done. Now what?'

God, it all suddenly sounds so much like foreplay.

She watches Maura shiver, tries to shove the coat back into her arms. 'Put this back on, you'll freeze.'

'It's 35 degrees Fahrenheit, Jane. I'll certainly be cold, but I won't freeze. Go on, make your scene. Maybe it'll get you out of this foul mood you've been in recently.'

'Just….' _Yes—I know—I'm sorry. _She hangs her head, shoulders slumping. 'C'mere, Maura. Please.'

It's unnecessary. She has a hand on Maura's wrist already, so so delicate this time, and with a slight tug, the smaller woman bumps against her. Maura blinks—something childlike as the fear of spiders and pain of papercuts hiding under her lashes.

Jane wants to place a kiss on each eyelid and whisper meaningless things—soft sounds and strings of vowels and lullabies that will make everything okay.

She wants to apologise and stitch the two of them back together.

Instead, she drapes Maura's blazer gently onto her shoulders before pushing the sleeve of her shirt upward—knowing what she'll find there, it's burned in her memory already—but still her breath catches.

Soft white skin. Goosebumps from the cold. And a hand.

Faint blues and reds meld into purples, light browns linger along the edges. Jane places her own hand over the imprint on Maura's arm, the bruised finger-marks showing beyond her own. She doesn't press down, doesn't want to do anything to hurt the woman any more than she already is.

Jane runs a fingertip along the outline and gently tugs Maura's sleeve back down. She fights the impulse to pull at the other sleeve, to tug at shirt and pants and undress the woman right here on the sidewalk, to make sure there's not another mark on her.

She can't tell whether she actually pulls Maura into her arms or if the flutter of blinking eyelashes against her cheek is a trick of the wind and lovesick proximity. When she closes her eyes, she sees sparks and Maura and red.

'I'll kill him.'

* * *

**A/N:** Sorry if that one was a bit long, but thanks so much for reading. As always, I'd love to hear what you thought.


	5. To Win the Girl of Your Dreams

'I'll kill him.'

The repetition is important. The sentence much simpler than the sixteen (nineteen, thirty-five) grisly and torturous options that flash behind blinking eyelids: bits of crime scenes she's witnessed and experienced with just enough imagination thrown in to keep things interesting.

Dull blades. Slow strangulation. Death by a million papercuts.

She wants to tear him limb from limb and skin him alive and slowly strangle him all at once.

'There's no need for that, Jane.' Maura's trying to smile—Jane hates that she feels the need to. 'It's a simple haematoma. It will heal.'

It's not the healing that's the problem. It's that it happened in the first place, that it exists at all.

(She wants to take Maura into her arms, to hold her close and breathe her in. She wants to press her face into the crook of Maura's neck and feel the pulse that flutters there, make sure it's real and strong.)

Maura shivers—Jane feels it in her arms, against her chest, throughout her whole body.

(She realises that she already is.)

It feels like sirens blaring _danger! danger!_—it feels like the safest place in the world. She's much too close (and not close enough), and somehow the urge to nuzzle into Maura's neck is so overpowering that it happens almost of its own accord, her lips brushing soft skin when she speaks. 'What happened?'

Maura seems content in this space, a hand fisted in Jane's sweatshirt—or at least she doesn't pull away. (Right now these things are more important than breathing.) 'A difference of opinion. I won't be seeing him again.'

'A difference of opinion?' It's Jane who pulls back—hands refusing to follow suit, fingers grasping at a hip, a side, anything that's soft and sweet and Maura. 'That's all you have to say?'

'That's all it was.'

Jane scrubs a hand over her face. _Breathe in, breathe out. _She's so fucking angry, so very aware of how it's trying to concentrate in the wrong direction. _In, out, in again. _Her lungs shudder as the last long breath releases. She thinks she can hold her own now.

There's Maura, who's trying to hold her own but seems to be shrinking. So fucking beautiful with her hair whipping in the wind. Jane reaches back out to her, has to make sure she won't get blown away.

'Did he—' Her voice cracks, and she clears her throat. 'Did he do anything else to you?'

'No.' It's firm. Almost too much so, and Jane knows this woman can't lie but she doesn't know if her word is enough here. Maura's watching her carefully. 'I can take care of myself.'

_You shouldn't have to._

(She's not sure whether she should have said it aloud.)

'In fact,' Maura continues, a small smile infusing an impossible lightness into the conversation, 'I'd be hard-pressed to say which was more bruised, his ego or his groin.'

Jane can't help grinning.

'That's my….' The _girl_ freezes on her lips and her hands fall to her sides.

_She's not. _

_She's not yours._

_But maybe she could be—if you could stop being a jackass for more than five seconds at a time._

'I think we're serving as a form of mealtime entertainment.' Maura tilts her head toward the diner window, the patrons within at least surreptitious enough to keep their noses from fogging the glass.

'Great.' Jane rolls her eyes. She can practically hear the gossip now—would actually be surprised if it didn't somehow make it all the way from this little Cape town to her mother's ears in Boston.

'I'll go settle our bill and gather our things. You can wait in the car.'

Jane stops her with a hand to the shoulder. 'I'll do it.'

(She wants to take care of this. To take care of _her_.)

The jingle of the bell seems as loud as a gunshot—the diner eerily silent. Jane galumphs to their abandoned table, head held high and staring down anyone brave enough to glance in her direction. She grabs their things, tries to mop up the spilled syrup as best she can, and heads to the diner's counter, the sounds of eating and conversation eventually picking up around her.

Young Tom meets her there with a knowing smile. 'Manage to avoid the doghouse?'

'It's not— We're not—'

Jesus, is it really that obvious to everyone but the two of them?

'I know.' His grin is warm—with his perfect teeth and clothes and hair—and so genuine, she begins to feel a bit guilty for her initial hatred towards him. 'Here, bring her this. It's her favourite.' Tom reaches behind the counter to one of the many pies—blueberry, she thinks—placing it in a box. 'On the house. The meal, too.'

'I can't let you do that.'

'Sure you can. Mom swears her blueberry pancakes are responsible for nourishing Maura through med school. She'd kill me if she found out I charged her for her breakfast.'

As if on cue, Mary pops her head out the back door and waves. 'Don't you dare take a penny from that girl if you know what's good for you!'

'See?' Tom laughs as his mother disappears again—not without a shout of _I expect to see you girls in here tomorrow_. 'So really you're doing me a favour.'

'In that case, thanks.' She matches his smile, only letting it falter as she waves vaguely back to where she and Maura had been sitting. 'And sorry about all that.'

'Don't worry about it. People probably come here for the gossip more than the food.' He glances back over his shoulder. 'Even though the food's amazing, Henry.'

'Damn right,' Henry grunts in agreement, but there's a softness in his eyes when he looks over at the other man—a quick wink, something almost like a smile, and then back to work.

She wants _this_. The smiles and easy jokes and little touches. She tries to ignore the pang of jealousy as she fumbles through a goodbye and turns to leave.

'And Jane?'

'Yeah?'

Tom comes out from behind the counter to meet her by the door, his voice low. 'Don't give up on her. I see the way you look at her. And she's talked about almost nothing but you for years.'

* * *

The afternoon wants to snow.

It tries to, in fits and starts—quick squalls that send a shimmer of crystals and white over everything. It would have been picturesque, quiet snowflakes over sand and water. But the air soon settles, and there's nothing but rain. Cold and miserable and sometimes-freezing rain.

They perch on opposite ends of the sofa, almost unsure if even this is too close, with so much space between them. There are other chairs. Other rooms. But neither of them make a move.

Jane channel-surfs, hunkering down into the squashy cushions as if trying to burrow into them.

Maura flicks through an old medical journal—all prim and proper, spine straight and one leg crossed delicately over the other.

The blueberry pie sits on the coffee table, already missing two good-sized wedges.

Eventually they gravitate towards each other, both without meaning to and with a slow and careful purpose. Maura lifts her feet onto the couch and rests her back against its arm, carefully licking a finger and turning a page in her magazine as if nothing had happened. Jane waits, pulls an afghan down over herself—leaving enough for Maura, who settles under it with an appreciative nod.

Sometime later—Jane's not sure how long-there's the pressure of a toe, the ball of a cold foot hitting against her thigh, tentative at first, then settling onto her lap.

Eyes are focused on glossy pages or the bright, flashing screen. There can't be any acknowledgement, just miniscule motions and barely-there touches that fit together like jigsaw pieces.

Jane thinks she might be having a miniature breakdown, wonders if Maura can feel her pulse through her legs. She remembers to breathe, to make the pattern not seem like gasping, and to continue flicking through the stations.

An SVU marathon—ten minutes in and they think they've caught the killer. Something where five-year-old girls dress up like mini adults and prance around stage. Cooking stuff, shopping stuff, news stuff. A documentary about some kind of weird monkey. Football. It almost doesn't matter who the teams are as long as they play well enough to provide a distraction.

(Both teams are terrible. Or are they awesome? It's possible that she's watching a different sport entirely. Croquet. Or rugby. Or quidditch.)

Because suddenly, amongst the commentating and cheers from the television, there's something almost like a moan from Maura's end of the couch. It's only when Jane hears it, and bristles, does she realise that there's one part of her still very much in motion.

Her hands.

(Jesus Christ, her fucking traitorous—beautifully heroic hands.)

Digging deep into knots and making small, soothing circles on the balls of Maura's feet, sweeping across the arches.

She can't seem to stop them.

(She doesn't put all that much effort into trying.)

Maura isn't reading anymore. Or if she is, she's doing it by osmosis, the magazine facedown on her stomach, her eyes closed. Jane wouldn't put such magic past her, actually—has a strange, burning desire to ask what the fifth word is on page twenty-three.

She doesn't. Has a feeling she wouldn't understand it anyway, and that this strange and delicate thing they've built here without even trying is as fragile as a spider's web—the slightest breath could destroy it (and she's killed smaller things than this with words before). How many of these rainy Saturdays have they missed out on: television and massages, making plans for the coming week, but first maybe deciding when exactly is too early for bed and what they'll have for dinner?

Someone scores a touchdown, or a goal, or a homerun.

(She thinks it might be her.)

Jane closes her eyes. There's something both thrilling and secure about being here, doing anything to make those soft sounds come from the woman beside her. She lets her fingertips venture up and ankle, dance along a calf—she dies a little inside when Maura's leg flops just enough to the side, allowing her better access.

Palm to shin, sliding (her pulse races in opposition to the unhurried motions), and she's squeezing a knee when her eyes open and Maura's staring back at her—looking a little breathless and a little in awe, and Jane wonders just what this other woman sees when she looks at her.

'We need to talk.' There was never a more dangerous sentence in the English language, but Maura offers it gently.

Jane tries to feign innocence—fails greatly. 'About what?'

'I think you know.'

'You _think_ I know?'

_Stop it, Rizzoli. Stop it stop it stop it._

'Your platysma and masseter both tightened,' Maura responds simply—allowing Jane's jab but just barely. 'Stop deflecting and talk to me.'

'Sorry,' Jane manages to mumble. She can apologise for this at least—and maybe it will stand for more.

'It's just me, Jane.'

Maura—gorgeous, incredible, fucking beyond-brilliant Maura—doesn't seem to see that that's exactly the problem.

(Or maybe she does.)

Jane wants to pull this beautifully strong-yet-delicate woman into her lap and tousle her hair—she settles for swiping a thumb over the crease of a knee. 'I'd just fucked up a case. I was angry. And I was drinking.'

(_I want to fuck __**you**__. I'm so confused. Why aren't we drinking?_)

'Okay.' It's with expectation, the way Maura's head tilts and her bottom lip twitches—a breath where she starts to say more but holds back. _That's not everything._

Jane shrugs, her hand sliding a bit down Maura's leg with the motion. '_I_ think _you _know.'

Maura's eyes cast downward to where Jane presses against her under the blanket. 'I'm not sure of anything anymore.'

They're getting nowhere with actual words—gestures speaking volumes in the spaces that surround them. Jane wraps her hand around Maura's calf, her fingertips tracing messages so secret that not even she knows what they are. (Maura's breath seems to catch and Jane wonders if she's spelled something in google-mouth, if she's accidentally written _beautiful _or _sex _or _love._)

'Why are you with him?'

_And not me?_

'I'm not. Not anymore.'

'Why _were_ you?'

'This time yesterday, I could've given you a dozen reasons.' Maura runs a hand over her bruised arm. 'Right now, I can't think of a single one.'

Jane thinks she might have just drawn a heart on Maura's ankle (or an _M_ or a hexagon). She won't be satisfied until she knows for sure those bruises reach no further than her forearms (her heart, her ego), until she knows with absolute certainty that that fucker can never ever lay a finger on Maura Isles ever again.

'I'm sorry, Maura.' That's twice now in only a few minutes. She's making leaps and bounds—or slowly breaking into a million tiny pieces.

'It's not your fault.'

'I…' _—was such a dick— _'…wasn't there for you_.'_

(She still doesn't trust herself not to transform at any moment, her insides twisted into so many knots, and hurtful comments too easy to reach.)

'You are now.'

It has to be enough—Jane's not sure that it ever can be. 'What was it about?'

'What was what about?'

'Your difference of opinion.' She can't help drawing the air quotes with her free hand.

Maura bites her lip, stiffening just enough for Jane to feel it. 'It's not important.'

Jane waits, rubbing the arch of a foot with her thumb, relieved when the other woman relaxes into her touch. 'It is to me.'

There's the head tilt again as Maura seems to consider, picking at invisible threads sticking out of the afghan. 'He was angry. And he was drinking.'

She doesn't need the sudden thrill of eye contact to catch the symmetry. 'And?'

Maura's so quiet it's almost like she doesn't speak at all. 'It was about you.'

'Me?'

Her heart flutters in her throat, equal parts hope and horror. She knows she must have done something stupid, made one too many nasty comments, rolled her eyes a few too many times. But she can't get past the fact that she'd gone out of her way to avoid the couple in the past weeks, hadn't been anywhere near them.

(All she hears is the sound of the ocean that is her heartbeat in her ears_—the rustle of sheets—the smack of a palm—the thousand-and-one variations on oh, oh, ohhh, Jaaaa—_)

A hundred possible questions, but her brain can't seem to steer past want and sarcasm—and she hears herself speaking before she has a chance to stop it. 'What, did you call out the wrong name in bed or something?'

_Fuck._

There was even a snort of derisive laughter.

The air is thick and heavy with held-in breaths and quick heartbeats and tension. And Maura won't look at her, hair swinging to block her face from view as her chin dips.

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck._

(She wants to crawl under the afghan, build a fort from couch cushions, and declare no entry without a password. She wants to apologise and take it back and never have said anything in the first place.)

Maura's moving to stand, Jane's hand cold and empty. Her words are quick and hollow, nearly thrown over her shoulder as she walks away. 'I think I'm going to go lie down for a while. I didn't sleep well last night.'

(She wants to stop putting her foot in her fucking mouth for once and just have an honest-to-goodness conversation about girly things like feelings—and womanly things like exactly how this woman makes her feel.)

Now is the time to catch Maura's hand, to stand and chase and pull Maura to her. To keep them pressed close together, even if it's just palm to leg. But Jane's stupid and frozen, and Maura disappears down the stairs.

_Follow her._

_Follow her follow her follow her._

She's going to. Jane kicks off the blanket, a corner clinging to her foot and tripping her as she tries to stand. She sticks out a hand to keep from falling, just righting herself when something catches her eye.

Maura's cell phone on the end table, blinking silently with unread messages.

Jane picks it up, the weight of it seeming heavy in her hand. She brings the screen to life, unlocking it without even having to think about the passcode. There's a slew of unanswered messages, almost all variations on _I'm sorry, baby _and _you know I would never hurt you on purpose_.

All except one.

_It's not like you're blameless, you bitch._

It doesn't matter that an apology follows quickly with a million excuses and explanations. That one messages is enough, her earlier refrain returning full-force.

She's going to kill him.

Jane manages to steel herself and type a response. Succinct and to-the-point: place and time, it's not a question.

His answer is instantaneous, something long and gushing that she doesn't bother to properly read. It amounts to a _yes _and that's all that matters as she digs Maura's keys out of her bag, slipping down the stairs and out the front door.

She knows he'll be there.

He doesn't know what he's in for.

* * *

**A/N: **More angry!Jane coming next chapter, but I'll probably calm her soon after that before she has a coronary. :) Thanks so much for reading and reviewing. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it.


	6. Beat Up the Bad Guy

If there's one thing she always thought about Mr. Imperfect—aside from the fact that he was a pompous jackass and Maura could do better—it's that he always put too much gel in his hair. His entire head glints in the buttery glow of a streetlight, not a strand out of place. She always thought it made him look like a living Ken doll—plastic hair plastered to his plastic body (his slightly smarmy smile and the fact that there was surely nothing interesting going on underneath his clothes).

Archer? Adam? Arnold?

She's not sure whether she's simply forgotten or if she ever bothered to learn his name at all.

The rain has stopped, leaving everything in puddles that are just starting to ice over. Weary travellers amble into the building to use the facilities, stumbling out with vending machine loot or greasy McDonalds bags. The outdoor seating at the service area was a very un-Maura choice of destination for a meeting, but if he thinks so, he doesn't let on.

Jane's been watching him for nearly half an hour. At first, while he stood more-or-less patiently by a table. Then while he paced, circling the small area (and avoiding the gaggle of loud teenagers who had taken over the farthest corner). And finally, as he retreated to his car, pulling a towel from the trunk and returning to mop at one of the soaked seats before sinking into it.

He grows more impatient by the minute, checking his phone for the umpteenth time, another sigh bristling his shoulders and his fingers tapping on the table. Jane loves it. She doesn't just want to catch him off guard, she wants him to fuck him over every which way.

He can wait until she's ready. Or he can leave. Those are the only choices she's giving him tonight.

Raucous laughter and some sort of chant that relies heavily on _fuck fuck fuck _erupts from the group of teenagers, French fries and crumpled McDonalds wrappers flying between their tables—this only seems to irritate him further.

Perfect.

But as Jane finally gets out of the car, she realises that she hasn't quite convinced herself that murder might not look good on her résumé.

It doesn't matter.

The chill of the air is invigorating. It reeks of fast-food and gasoline.

Now or never.

She's no blonde bombshell, so he doesn't acknowledge her approach, and it's not until she slides onto a cold and wet seat across from him that he bothers to look at her, his demeanour souring even further.

Surprise.

'Where's Maura?'

'You're gonna be waiting awhile for her to show up, buddy.' She tries on a smile—wants to match his easy nonchalance—but it doesn't fit. A scowl has always looked better on her anyway, the intimidation of it comforting.

'I'm afraid you've wasted your time. I have nothing to say to you, Jane.' He keeps his voice so obnoxiously pleasant that they might as well be discussing the weather.

_An awfully cold day for rain, isn't it?_

_Yes it is. Though the sun was nice this morning, wasn't it? Oh, and while I think of it: how exactly would you prefer I remove your head from your body?_

'Funny, because I have quite a bit to say to you.'

He dismisses this outright, standing with a wave of his hand. 'Tell Maura I'll call her.'

'I won't. Because you won't.' She's been poised to strike for hours now, jumps up easily to stop him and jabs a finger into his chest. 'You don't text her. You don't call her. You don't show up at work or on her doorstep. You don't go anywhere near her.'

His smile is saccharine, the cracks beginning to show in the boy-next-door disguise that must have fooled far too many women. 'Should've known you'd come charging in here to defend your _girlfriend_.'

He seems to think his size and testosterone give him the upper hand.

He's underestimated the power of a short fuse, a bad attitude and a streak of stupid-sometimes-turned-brave stubbornness a mile wide. (Not to mention the fists-at-the-ready, leap-before-looking insanity that amounts to love.)

'You're damn right I'll defend her.' Though remembering the part where she's not her girlfriend seems less important right here, right now. 'The thing I'm having trouble understanding is how bruises in the shape of your hands ended up on Maura's body.'

She matches him word for word, frown for smile. And as she runs her hand through her hair and leans towards him it somehow feels like the equivalent of polishing a rifle (or trimming her fingernails with a bowie knife, giving that slight nod that draws a gang of Titan-sized men out from the shadows).

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

She reaches out and takes hold of his forearm, squeezing tightly just where she knows those marks to be. 'Do you know how hard you have to press and for how long so that this leaves a bruise?'

She thinks she has the strength to do it to him now, even through November layers of wool and cotton.

(She thinks she sounds a bit like Maura, her brain a whir of calculations of force and time and pressure.)

'Are you kidding me?' He shakes her off. 'I barely touched her!'

'Really? The _I don't know my own strength _defence? You seem to think you're a smart guy—I thought you'd be able to come up with something better than that.'

'We were having an argument, and I took hold of her arm. That's all. If she bruises easily that's her problem, not mine.'

Jane recoils, the words stinging more than a slap to the face. Her hands and jaw clench, her tone low. 'You lay a hand on her and hurt her in any way, and it's very much your problem.'

He grins like a rabid Cheshire cat, wide and sly and dangerous—he still thinks he has something up his sleeve. 'I think your anger is a bit misplaced, Jane, seeing as your so-called lesbian lover was in the arms of a man.'

The buzzword is obvious. It doesn't matter how loudly it's spoken, a group of teenage boys will hear it from a mile away. There's one last loud _ohhhh_ from the seating area's occupied corner, and then a sudden, expectant silence (—because surely where there's one lesbian, there's two, and where there's two, there's mud wrestling).

Jane ignores their sudden audience, tries to keep the surprise out of her voice. 'What the hell are you talking about?'

'Don't pretend you haven't been fucking her all along.'

'I'm not pretending.'

(She has pretend_ed_, but that's nowhere near his business.)

'Bullshit.' He's not trying for civil anymore, and the difference is terrifying. 'She moaned your name like she's been doing it for years.'

Oh fuck. Really?

_(Oh fuck, Jaaaaaaane….)_

Somehow it feels like a victory.

She's not sure whether to raise her fist in the air or hyperventilate. (She doesn't think she actually has a choice.) There's not much chance for deliberation or revelling, because that fucker is opening his goddamned mouth again, and she just _knows_—

'You dykes think you can just chase after us straight guys whenever you need a little—'

Jane swings for him. One good, solid punch that lands squarely on his jaw. She feels the snap of pain in her knuckles, the force of him reeling backwards, and it's more than a little satisfying to see the glint of blood on his split lip when he turns back to her.

'You know, butch as you are, you still hit like a girl.' Strike one—she can let this go (almost). 'Figures. If you could properly satisfy your girlfriend in the first place, she wouldn't have come crawling to me.' Strike two—there's still a chance she can just walk away (even as her fists tighten). 'She may have called out your name, but that bitch of yours sure does know her way around a dick.'

Strike three.

And she comes unhinged.

There's the whoosh of air as she rushes towards him, the spark of panic in his eyes just before she makes contact.

Everything after that is a blur, senses confused and impossibly mixing.

(A difference of opinion.)

She watches herself as if under a strobe light. Bursts of things happening in slow motion and much too quickly. A jab here, a block there, hooks and crosses and jabs again—strange feral motions that she's never been trained to throw. She can smell them. Not just the blood and breath and closeness of the actions, but each individual blow like smoke and gunpowder, the pop of wet wood in fire.

Flashes.

Non-existent lightning.

(Soft white skin. Goosebumps from the cold. And a hand.)

Whistles and cheers from the teenagers that taste like triumph and disappointment (_she shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be doing this, god it feels so fucking good_).

The scratch of wool and stubble, against fingertips and knuckles and her forearm deflecting, the so-satisfying firmness of buttons and teeth and bone. And the way they sound like rockets and firecrackers, roman candles and the hiss of summer sparklers.

(Sparks and red and Maura.)

She feels invincible, even as she knows blows hit her. Even at the smack of air leaving her lungs as she's thrust back against a table. She coughs, struggling to find her breath and regaining it quickly. But the pause is enough to shake her momentum, and when she finds her feet again, she's startlingly unsure of her next move.

'You can have her.' He's doubled over, spits blood onto the ground. 'No woman's worth this.'

'See, that's where you're wrong.' Jane holds her head high, chest heaving as she draws closer to him. 'I would kill you for her.'

_It's because of her that I'm not._

'You're fucking crazy.' He backs away, wary of her now, and she'll take it. 'You two deserve each other.'

(God, she hopes so.)

'You stay away from her,' Jane growls, knocking him with her shoulder as she passes. She moves toward the car, slowly, robotically, wincing as the teenagers loudly coming back to life behind her.

'Dude, that lady _beat _your ass.'

'Your face is _fucked up_, man.'

'Did she really steal your girlfriend? Cuz you should've tried to get in on that.'

The door slams. The car starts.

The silence inside is too much, and she turns on the radio, cranking the volume. It's something soothing and classical and Maura—something not to be played so loudly. She doesn't touch the dial.

Five minutes on the highway and she's shaking. She pulls off the next exit and into the first possible parking lot. From the look of the neon lights in the window, it's a 24-hour convenience store with a heavy emphasis on liquor and a less-than-stellar clientele.

_Breathe, Jane. Just breathe._

(It's Maura's voice she hears in her head.)

Jane rests her forehead on the steering wheel, focuses on breathing, wondering if Maura will be more upset at the state of her or the fact that she's probably dripping blood in her car. (Wondering if Maura will be _too_ upset with her, if she's just fucked everything up for the last time.)

And she laughs. High and loud and crazy. It wants to end in a sob, the pressure in her lungs almost overbearing, but she won't let it.

Not now. (Not ever.)

In the dashboard, she searches for leftover fast-food napkins and finds wet wipes. Slow and steady. Fix one thing at a time. She cleans herself up as best she can in the sun visor mirror. She's going to have a black eye, but her stitches have held and everything else is small scratches.

(She's a little bit terrified of how good it felt, feeling his skin and bones pound against her fists.)

Before she turns the key in the ignition, she spots something just inside the store and forces herself inside. She ignores the cashiers questioning glance as she pays for the chintzy bouquet of slightly-wilted roses and carnations—a placeholder until she can find something better.

* * *

Voices float down the stairs as she quietly climbs them—Maura's not alone, and the old-model Buick parked outside the house now makes a lot more sense. Jane momentarily freezes, feeling very much like she's sneaking back into her parents' house after an unapproved night out and one creak of a stair could end her.

'—know what to do anymore.' Maura sounds small and hollow, and Jane knows exactly how she'll find her curled up on the sofa—her heart hurts at the thought.

'She'll have her reasons, dear.' Mary's voice now—almost too bright in contrast. 'Whether or not you agree with them is up to you.'

'What if I don't?'

'Then you argue. Like in any healthy relationship. It's going to take a lot more than this to break the bond that you've formed with her.'

'I'm not sure that hasn't happened already.'

'Nonsense. Everything will be fine. I'm sure of it. You two are….'

(Two more seconds and she might have had the key to everything, but now those words will remain a mystery.)

Jane trips up the last few stairs like an idiot—with a resounding clunk, the crackle of cellophane, and, after all the agonising, a greeting much less suave than any of her planned contenders. '_Shit_… sorry.'

She feels the two faces turn towards her rather than sees them—is afraid of what might be there when she looks into Maura's eyes. Jane gathers herself and tries to stand tall, fails almost immediately, and ends up holding out the slightly-crushed bouquet of flowers like an awkward boy trying to ask his crush to the middle school dance.

_Maura, I…._

_I'm sorry, M…._

_I didn't mean…._

Nothing seems like enough.

'See? Your detective is home, and just about in one piece.' Mary's voice physically hurts it's so chirpily optimistic. 'Do you want me to get you two something to eat or can you manage?'

It's a question is innocent enough, but Jane can hear the undertones: _Do you want me to stay or will you be all right alone?_

'No, we can manage.' Maura rises with the older woman, giving her a quick hug. 'Thank you for keeping me company.'

'Any time, dear. If you need anything else, you know where to find me.' Mary starts towards the stairs. She stops when she reaches Jane, perking up the crushed flowers and giving Jane's arm a quick squeeze. 'Good luck. Tread lightly.'

Then they're alone. And the silence is louder than any single sound Jane's experienced. She has to break it (before it breaks her).

'Maura.' But she doesn't know what comes next.

Maura is blank. And so so quiet. 'Where did you go?'

'I….' It suddenly seems so juvenile—a fight in the schoolyard when she's old and wise enough to know to use her words. Jane stares down at her hand, the knuckles bruised and starting to throb.

(She feels like she's crushed something so beautiful and unique and delicate. A heel squashing spring's first flower. A misplaced palm snapping the wing of a butterfly. A detective taking the heart of a doctor and squeezing it in her hands.)

'I know something's been troubling you lately, but you don't get to do this, Jane.' The start and end of the sentence are on opposite ends of the spectrum, anguish building to anger. 'You've ignored me, you've shouted at me, you've treated me terribly, and I've let that all go. But you don't get to run out on me. You don't.'

_Jesus Christ, woman, go to her. Hold her, press against her, breathe into her. Show her that you're here and solid and…._

'I'm sorry.'

A step in the right direction, but not far enough.

'You're sorry? Do you have any idea how high my cortisol level has been?' Maura's crossing the room, rooting through the freezer—Jane knows better than to question her. 'You were gone, Jane. You were gone, the car was gone, and I couldn't get in touch with you.'

'I know. I didn't think that—'

'Well, it's obvious you didn't think. Or maybe you did, but it was just about yourself. You've mastered that by now, haven't you?'

The inflection's there, but it's not really a question, and as Maura approaches with a bag of frozen peas, Jane fights the urge to retreat and hide in some small dark corner. She finds the bouquet of flowers batted out of her hand, the makeshift icepack plonked down on her knuckles, and Maura takes a moment to gingerly press fingertips around Jane's eye and jaw, examining her bruises.

Even now, so angry, and she can't help but take care of everyone around her.

(Jane thinks she falls a little more in love with her—didn't know that was even possible.)

'It's not like that.' Jane tries to catch the hand that was pressed against her, but Maura plays hard to get, folding her arms. 'It shouldn't have been like that. Listen—'

'No, Jane. For once, you listen to me. What was so important? What was so _fucking_—' The word from this woman sounds so strange and venomous and somehow like sweet-nothings in delicate French. '—important that you couldn't take two seconds to tell me where you were going?'

(She wants Maura gasping on top of her, cultured and crass and medical, rasping curses in Serbian and French and Latin, telling where she wants to be touched with such scientific precision that Jane becomes even more lost.)

'You.'

Maura softens, just a hint of blushing schoolgirl colouring the tips of her ears (and it's so much more than enough that Jane almost forgets to breathe). This is the part of the Disney movie where anger's discarded and the heroes fly into each others' arms—all chirping birds and rainbows now that the villain's vanquished and happily ever after is just on the horizon.

(She never trusted those happy endings.)

Reality is never so animated and easy. There are insecurities and further questions. Maura stares back down at Jane's hand now, just shy of reaching out for it. 'Tell me you didn't.'

_She knows already you did._

'That bastard deserved it.'

Maura ducks her chin and folds a bit farther into herself, her voice low. 'Whether or not he deserved it was not your decision.'

Anger flickers—she's like a frayed wire, capable of sparking at any moment and taking everything in the room with her. 'You're seriously not defending him?'

'Of course not.' It's the closest Jane's ever seen her to sneering. 'But a fistfight, Jane? You're not fifteen years old. He could press charges. An incident like this could jeopardise your career, not to mention your—'

'I don't care.'

(God, when did she become so ridiculously like an unruly teenager?)

Maura covers her eyes with her hand, eventually letting it scrub down her face. 'You can be so infuriating sometimes, I just want to….' She shakes her head.

'What? Whatever it is just—'

A sudden _ooph_ completing the sentence (a hand tugging her, hard).

The air knocked from her lungs for the second time that day (she wouldn't be able to breathe even with it).

And Maura's mouth on hers, gentle but insistent.

It's all too easy to give in.

* * *

**A/N: **Just a heads up that this is probably going to wrap up in the next couple chapters or so. I haven't quite figured out how to do anything super long yet.  
As always, thanks so much for reading, and I'd love to hear what you thought. :)


	7. And Eat Your Greens

Everything feels just a bit off kilter (and like she has more equilibrium than she's had in years).

Slight movements are momentous tasks. Moving her hand half an inch to the left seems to take twenty minutes. (That quick flick of her tongue is automatic—takes no effort at all.) She feels suddenly six hours into a raucous party—inhibitions dashed as Blue Moon and bass-driven music buzz through her veins.

Because Maura's arms are around her back, fingers nearly grasping as if afraid Jane will be lost if she doesn't grab on. And there's the soft bump of noses, the flicker of movement from mouths. And that right there is pure heaven—Maura's tongue flitting against her lips and then brushing her own.

Jane hears a distinctly needy whimper—doesn't like to admit that it came from her own throat. But here, where there's gasping and grasping and Maura pressed hard against her, it hardly matters.

Maura's soft and purposeful. Jane feels all accidents and angles.

(Did she just step on a toe there? Should she pull closer or push back? Was that a sigh of pain or pleasure?)

_Too much fucking thinking._

She tries to find a level playing field, even though she knows no one's keeping score.

But then Maura does this fantastically sexy thing which involves some sort of tap-slide-quiver of her tongue that feels like dancing—and ends it with the scrape of teeth on Jane's bottom lip, sucking softly… and all bets are off.

(Were they ever really on to begin with?)

Jane waltzes, trying to keep time with her. Twirls and dips and slides in something like three-four time. Not with feet, but with fingertips, the rhythm ever-changing as she cha-chas over cloth and rumbas her way to bare skin. An entire palm suddenly snaking under Maura's shirt and flexing.

_Jesus fucking Christ._

She's never claimed to know much about science—or at least she might have before this crazy-brilliant woman entered her life. (Now, there's not much point pretending.) But she's pretty sure that there must be a law of physics or biology or even mythology somewhere that Maura simply defies. Too soft, too sweet, to perfect to be real.

'Jane?'

It's gorgeous, the hitch her name has in that breathless voice.

'Yeah?'

(She thinks she'll give her anything.)

'We shouldn't do this.' Maura speaks it directly into her lips, each word a kiss to defy their collective meaning. 'Not like this.'

(She thinks she might die a little—or rage into the Incredible Hulk. Neither is an appealing option.)

Jane pulls back completely, manages to stop herself from physically pushing the other woman away. 'Jesus, Maura. You can't just fucking start something and—'

'That's not fair.'

Maura shrinks before her—energy and desire draining to a little thing that finds trouble in constant truths. Jane grows with sudden anger that feeds on want and misunderstanding.

'What, the truth isn't fair now?'

_Careful, Jane. So so careful._

Maura turns to glass—to push too hard could break her (Jane's ashamed to admit she's tempted to try it). 'I don't want you with me simply because of adrenaline and heightened emotion. I want you to still be here in ten minutes and tomorrow morning when realisation kicks in.'

'Where am I going to go?' She backs away, feet crunching on frozen peas, and it's only now she realises that she's dropped the bag, the floor a sea of frosted green. 'We came in the same car.'

(Does she look as foolishly helpless as she feels?—an idiot in the arms of her dream woman, searching desperately for an evacuation route?)

Maura sighs, shifts. 'Do you realise how often you run away?'

This catches Jane's attention and she recoils, just short of stomping her foot. She searches for danger, chases it, and tackles it to the ground. 'I've never run away from anything in my life.'

They're all folded arms and raised eyebrows again—if Jane breathes too deeply, she thinks she might cry.

'We've circled the issue for so long we've practically developed our own orbit.' Maura's fire slowly grows again—but it's not with anger this time, just the reassurance of simple facts. 'I've broken off relationships and waited for you. We'd flirt and come closer, but you'd always back away. I can't force you into something you aren't ready for or don't want.'

_She thinks you don't want this, she thinks you don't want this, she thinks you don't—_

'So you'd settle for that prick?' The tone, at least, is gentle, even if all the words are wrong.

'He was a mistake.' There's something like shame and embarrassment blinking in Maura's eyelids, in that slight downward pull at the corners of her mouth. 'But there were a few genuinely kind-hearted men. I could have been happy with one of them. I thought I was.'

Happy. A funny little word that has so many different meanings. (Jane still hasn't quite figured out which one fits her.)

She swallows and steps forward, needing the closeness now. 'That still sounds an awful lot like settling.'

'Maybe.' Maura shrugs so it brushes against her. 'But it's also settling _down_.'

Settling down. Magic words—sparking fear in some, longing in others. Jane doesn't quite know where she stands on the matter. She owns a small one-bedroom apartment for a reason, and her steady job and dog and monthly mortgage checks seem settled enough. (And somehow there's this crazy part of her that wants to spend fall weekends in boring places like apple orchards in pumpkin patches—a frigid December morning trudging through snow in search of the perfect Christmas tree—and every single night next to Maura in _their_ bed in _their_ room in _their_ house.)

She's not sure whether love and longing are enough to override her basic lone-wolf instincts. But Maura… Maura deserves….

'Look—' The first word hurts already and it's meaningless. '—if you want to go play Desperate Housewives, I won't stand in your way.'

She can feel her pulse in her eyelids, her entire line of vision vibrating.

'You know I don't.' The _You know I want __**you**_ doesn't need to be said—it's in the fraught way Maura reaches for her hand, linking their fingers as if that alone can keep them together. 'But I can't wait around forever for you, Jane. I need to live my life. And I want you in it—if that can only be as my friend, then so be it.'

It's the gentlest of ultimatums. Not _love me or leave me_ but _I want you however I can have you—it's up to you to choose how we proceed. _

Jane runs her thumb over Maura's knuckles, her breath shuddering as she releases it. For once in her life, she actually lets herself _feel_—her skin humming, her heartbeat in her hand where Maura's presses against it—and she thinks she finally _finally_ understands. 'Okay.'

(She says it and it seems like everything—she knows it's probably the least clear answer she could give.)

'Okay?'

She'd do anything to wipe the insecurity from Maura's face, and the kiss comes as easily as breathing. She tries to make every movement reassurance, her lips brushing _please stay _and _just be patient with me_.

When Maura backs away this time, it's with small nips to the corner of Jane's mouth, her cheek, her chin. Jane knows it's the right thing, that to dive right into this would be foolish, but still she can't help pouting.

'You're going to make me finish my vegetables before dessert, aren't you?'

Maura glances around them and cocks her head adorably. 'If you're talking about the peas, they're botanically a fruit, though I wouldn't consider them edible at this point. We're well past the limits of even your so-called five-second rule.'

'Don't worry, I wasn't planning on testing your aversion to the five-second rule.'

'It has no scientific basis! Bacteria have no regard for timing, and studies have shown—'

'Blah, blah, blah, Jane don't eat food off the floor.'

'Essentially, yes,' Maura laughs lightly (Jane's decided she loves that sound). 'Though I'm afraid I can't offer you much in the way of dessert either. That pie didn't last the evening.'

'I don't want pie.'

'There might be some ice cream in the freezer, but it's no doubt past its expiration date.'

Jane tugs at Maura's arm to keep the smaller woman by her side. 'Let's talk.'

'Talk? I thought you were hungry.'

'Talking—vegetables.' To finish the explanation, she's actually going to have to say the word out loud, and she feels a little like a pre-teen afraid to mention anything even vaguely sexual. 'Kissing—dessert.'

Maura considers this, crinkling her nose and shaking her head. 'That wasn't a very clear comparison.'

'I'll try harder next time,' Jane manages to promise solemnly. 'C'mon.'

(Before she loses her nerve.)

'I've never known you to want to sit down and have a conversation.'

It's true. There's always food or television or a dead body. They've sat down and talked, to be sure, but they've never sat down with the intention of talking—and miles separate the two. This is a conversation that could begin or end everything. It's terrifying—and all Jane can do is shrug.

'Ground rules, Jane.'

'We need rules to have a conversation?'

'Yes.' Maura is gently adamant as she finds Jane's other hand and runs her fingertips along the bruised knuckles.

(Jane wonders just how many times she's hurt this woman with words before.)

'Go ahead.'

Maura releases her hand and holds up a finger. 'Honesty.'

'Yeah.' Easy-peasy.

A second finger. 'No deflecting.'

'Okay.' She tries not to make is sound uncertain.

And the third. 'No sarcasm.'

(At this point, she's going to need a 12-step program. It might be easier to give up breathing.)

'_Minimal_ sarcasm,' she amends with an apologetic frown, and then at Maura's unasked question, 'I can't work miracles, but I'll try.'

She thinks Maura might kiss her again—feels the restraint in the other woman's hand as she squeezes Jane's and leads her over to the couch. 'First things first.'

Jane hadn't expected anything less.

She closes her eyes as Maura takes the time to poke and prod her, gingerly checking wounds and bruises—with the occasional jab that has Jane crying out in pain. Maura asks no questions outside of whether or not something hurts, and Jane volunteers little aside from occasional quip or _ow._

'You're an overgrown child,' Maura murmurs as Jane flinches with one final keening wail. But her eyes and soft smile, the way her fingertips linger—they chant strange-sounding things like _I love you _and _thank you_ and _never change._ 'Done.'

'Satisfied, Doctor?'

It had sounded like a good line at first—suddenly seems like the introduction to a porn film. And Jane feels her cheeks redden.

But Maura just nods curtly with a quiet, 'More or less,' as she settles down beside her.

There's no space. No distance or time to cross. They huddle together, foreheads nearly pressed like two small best friends sharing a secret in giddy inside voices. Feet tucked up, safe from under-the-sofa monsters, where everything but their one shared cushion is lava and to stray from its safety would be treacherous.

(She wonders if she should throw the afghan over them—trap them both in a makeshift fort where everything's glitter and rainbows, and there are no boys allowed.)

'You still want to talk?' Maura asks tentatively, tucking her feet under her, her knees tilting onto Jane's lap.

_Not really, no._

(She wants to kiss and touch and fuck. To save speech for curses and commands and incoherent babbling.—But if she does this right….)

'Yes.' Her hand finds a knee easily, her thumb rubbing small circles there. She holds her breath, poised for the starter's pistol, that first question—she's sure it will trigger defence mechanisms and sorry excuses. That she'll fail at this and then everything, and Maura will drift away.

'You're beautiful, Jane.'

_Oh._

Her heart is a hummingbird.

The tips of her ears feel pink and her breathing ragged. This she can do. Simple truths and observations. Slow workings to bigger things. She's never known three words, one sentence, to hold so much hope.

(She thinks she's smiling.)

'You are….'

And just like that, they're off.

(_It's not a race. It's easy. It's Maura._ She makes sure to remind herself, to try to slow down.)

They ramble and ask and speak in well-though sentences. Little words. Acquiescence and negation. Small collections of sounds that have a much deeper meaning. Larger ones with too many syllables that Jane can only guess at—with a small squeeze and a questioning glance that has Maura pausing for an explanation.

It's easier with limited eye contact. To instead watch her own hand start a slow slide up Maura's thigh—Maura's fingertips tip-toeing up her torso. All the million little ways they find to come closer when they weren't all that far apart to begin with.

'How long, Jane?' A hand presses, so softly, just under her ribcage.

'Too long.' She pushes a knee upward for more contact with Maura's legs.

Each question is punctuated with tapping fingers or a sliding thumb. Small shifts from legs and thighs are periods at the end of sentences. She tries to work in _I'm sorry_ as often and in as many ways as possible.

'Why didn't you say something?' Fingers tapping in time to heartbeats.

'Why didn't you?' Her thigh twitches—Maura's leg jerks in return.

(She sees stars and planets and galaxies.)

The pining. The flirting. The men. The anger. Emotions are laid bare.

(Physically, nothing is bare enough.)

It doesn't matter if the conversation continues leisurely or if Jane spurts _You-said-my-name-Do-you-think-of-me-when…? _on a single breath with an unfinished sentence that curls off with a helpless wave of the hand. The answer is _Yes_ and _Fantasy crept into reality. _The next question is _Do you?_

(_Always._)

Her own dirty jeans and Maura's too-expensive yoga pants. A blood-stained sweatshirt and a tight cotton top leaving just enough to the imagination. Fingers find skin where they can, but it's not often enough for either of their liking. The same areas traversed and mapped and crossed again—she knows this hip, this thigh, this half of a waist so well she could be a tour guide.

(Her breathing has increased steadily, her heartbeat never slowed.)

Jane's become braver, both in questions and movement.

'Why didn't you—' Her breath hitches as Maura's hand slides up her torso, _so close so close so close _to— 'Why didn't you ever go out with women?'

'I can't say I haven't considered it, but it wouldn't have been fair to them.' The _m _stretches deliciously into a hum, Maura's eyes closing as Jane makes a break for it, thumb swiping dangerously close to the inner crease of upper thigh. 'It wasn't their fault that they weren't you.'

Maura's hand is so close to her breast now. A breath would have it there.

(Jane sighs—deep and purposeful and _so fucking good_.)

And suddenly they must have been talking for a million hours and it's the very last thing she wants to do. She tries—she does—but all that comes out is….

'Please, Maura?' Her voice breaks—it's textbook begging—and she doesn't fucking give a damn as long as— 'Jesus….'

Maura's palm is warm and soft over her breast, motionless at first and then squeezing gently. Jane's head lolls back as her chest arches forward, and she wants to stay like this forever. (She wants so much more.)

The last half hour, few months, years—it's all so much foreplay that she's close to the edge already. She feels like a teenager. Hardly touched at all in any place intimate, and the first brush of a nipple has her teetering—as though second base is the best thing she's ever felt until this moment and a homerun is unfathomable.

She thinks she growls as she pulls Maura on top of her, ignoring the snap of pain in her knuckles, the way her head pounds. Her hands hover, a thigh trembling as it fights the urge to surge upward between Maura's legs.

'You can touch me, Jane.' Maura's voice is raspy and a little bit breathless.

'Yeah?' _What if I break you?_

Jane finds her hands in Maura's and then pressed against skin. _You won't. _

And that's all she needs.

They try for slow. Or something like it. Taking the time to feel and breathe and learn each other. (Jane catalogues information: There's a scar here, a freckle there. And if she touches just _there _with just enough pressure, Maura's breathing goes a bit funny and her eyes close and….)

But it isn't long until Jane finds herself ramping from zero to sixty, her lips pressing everywhere, slapdash and sliding. 'If you… want to stop… it's kinda now or never.'

Maura settles onto her lap, panting. 'Do _you_ want to stop?'

'Only if you do.'

_Jesus, what a time for manners and a fucking impasse._

(What a time to be a little bit curious and a little bit terrified and a little bit—)

'You've been touching me for half an hour, Jane, and my body has responded accordingly. If you stop now, I'll only have to finish what you started. Alone.'

Her entire body pulsates at the thought. (She can't blink because when she does, she sees Maura, slick-fingered and arching against herself—a hand between her legs and Jane's name on her lips. She tries to stop her hips from thrusting—ends up with a helpless and half-satisfying wiggle.)

Impatience and caution are not a good mix.

'So… don't stop?'

(She needs to be so sure that it's notarised and signed in triplicate. She needs pictographs and simple instructions in small words. She needs to not destroy every damn thing she touches.)

'Whatever you want, Jane. I trust your judgment.'

'You probably shouldn't.' The question still hangs, but her hips lurch, already building to a slow rhythm. There never really was a choice—only an answer.

'I trust _you._'

Maura takes Jane's hand, kisses each of the fingers, the palm, the wrist, and places it between her own legs, pressing against it but only just. Her eyes are dark when they flick to Jane's—and the emotion there, the heat and damp through fabric, Maura rocking against her….

Her eyes water as she struggles to keep from blinking. She's afraid if she closes her eyes, everything will disappear when she opens them again—she'll be under the covers, in the dark, and pushing against her own hand.

'Let's go downstairs.' She pauses for another kiss—they're addictive. 'And see what happens.'

Jane has only the best intentions (even if she makes slow progress). Maura's shirt doesn't make it down the stairs.

* * *

**A/N: **We're closing in on the end. The next chapter should be the last. Thanks so much for following this, and for the reviews-I always love reading them!


	8. The Sea Where It Goes

Her eyes snap open and she's pinned.

She's pinned and helpless and naked. The panic rises on gulped breaths that don't quite take in enough air. She's been here before—held down by ropes, scalpels through her palms—and the warm weight across her chest is clearly neither of those, but….

'Jane? You okay?' The words are slightly slurred in that way sleep has of blending consonants and stretching vowels—incoherent thoughts in less-than-complete sentences.

Memory wakes slowly, turning over pieces so they fit together—skin-to-skin… an unfamiliar room with a familiar style of furniture… _Maura_.

_(Her first orgasm is quick and unexpected—barely through the doorway of the bedroom when Maura presses against her with a bone-melting kiss—and Jane doesn't even know that she's grinding against her thigh until she's coming with a gasp.)_

Her breathing eases back to normal—or something like it—the warmth of arousal replacing the icy-sweat of panic. Because that's a bare arm slung across her torso, a leg over one of hers. She pinches herself, and it stings, and still the weight and image hold. She does it again for good measure.

And she feels a bit giddy, grinning into the darkness. Silly and girly and not-at-all Jane.

Or at least not the Jane she lets others see—fierce and tenacious and armoured against love and hate in equal measure. But a small and smiling twelve-year-old Jane, whose only scars are from tag and swing-sets and younger brothers—who knows Santa Claus doesn't exist but still wants to believe.

(She thought she'd lost all that—wonder and hope and innocence. Doesn't like to think how damaged that little girl's become—doesn't want anyone else to know she still exists under that tough and cracked exterior.)

'Jane?' The thickness of sleep is a little less this time. The arm squeezes _good morning_. Underneath the sheets, bare toes brush against her calf, a gentle, _just making sure you're still here._

(She thinks Maura might know already.)

_(Maura is so fucking gentle with her that Jane wants to grab her hard and say she's not made of fucking glass, thank you very much, and she needs it hard and fast if she's going to feel anything at all. But the thought gets lost somewhere in the middle, because Maura is tracing patterns that don't mean anything but make so much sense, and Jane feels a little bit worshipped and a little bit like she'll never be able to breathe.)_

'It's okay.' She presses a kiss to Maura's temple, reaching a hand to run it up and down whatever skin she can reach. 'Go back to sleep, Maur.'

Christ, she's become such a softie. And in only a few hours. In a few days, she'll probably be a damn teddy-bear, and then Lord help her after that.

(She kind of loves it—that she can be hard and soft and sharp angles with padded edges. She doesn't need to hide.)

Maura takes no more convincing to relax back to sleep with heavy limbs and a soft sigh. Jane blinks and breathes, stretching fistfight- and sex-worn muscles—too awake to sleep, too comfortable to consider moving.

She wants to stay here forever—under the cover of smooth sheets and darkness, with Maura breathing deeply beside her. She wants to wake her slowly with small touches that grow braver—to see how many languages this woman knows in her sleep. She wants to dip back inside and see if Maura's dreamed of her. (She wants to make sure this wasn't all a dream.)

_(Maura is an expert in transfiguration—loud and demanding one minute, soft and near-silent the next. Jane thinks her orgasms are like snowflakes—no two are exactly alike. She plans on forming a mental catalogue to test the theory, see if she can ever find two that match.)_

But her bladder has other ideas and the inside of her mouth feels like it's made of cotton, and both of those things require moving.

She manages to extricate herself. Maura stirs, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like one of her beloved chemical compounds. She reaches for Jane, frowning in her sleep when she doesn't find her, but seems at least somewhat satisfied at being able to take up more of the bed than such a small woman should manage—Jane's not sure how she'll be able to slide in beside her when she returns.

(She imagines nights of blanket tug-of-war. Frozen or furnace depending on some intricate equation that only the sleeping doctor knows—something like dreams multiplied by direction of turning, over how many blankets she takes with her.)

Jane is grinning dopily when the harsh light of the bathroom clicks on, but it melts faster than ice in summer. Her reflection scowls back at her—cuts and bruises, one eye only opening halfway. Fuck, she looks like something the cat's dragged in—after it's already been regurgitated.

_How'd something like you end up snagging someone as drop-dead gorgeous as that?_

(She's a little bit terrified that at some point—right now or in the future—Maura's going to see her for what she really is and recoil. That the bruises are too much, the scars run too deep. That Jane is just too hurtful and sarcastic and _Jane_.)

She avoids the mirror as she washes her hands, cupping them and taking a drink of slightly soapy water before retreating back towards the bedroom. She gets as far as the doorway. Maura looks so peacefully beautiful, so suddenly unattainable, and Jane finds herself staring at her own bruised and scarred hands.

(She's not afraid, she's not afraid, she's not… sure she deserves this.)

The sudden ringing of the doorbell is half-intrusion, half-saviour. It draws her out of herself and back towards something like thinking. She registers only two things, but they're important enough to matter: one, to let the doorbell ring further would only wake Maura, and two, she's naked. These are problems she should be able to solve. The former needs speed, the second, obviously, clothing. But Maura's room is dark and unfamiliar, and last night's clothes may as well be in Narnia, so she rummages through the nearest chest of drawers, pulling on something at least halfway decent.

The one comforting thought as she heads towards the door, is that at least there is absolutely zero chance it can be her mother. (Hopefully.)

The apology comes in before she even fully opens the door, the voice familiar. 'I'm so sorry.'

It's the younger Tom, with a bag in each hand and a sheepish smile.

'For what?'

He looks at her without judgment or staring, as though she's perfectly put together and without a bruise in sight. 'Showing up out of the blue.'

Jane gives a shrug and a wry smile. 'Let me guess. Your mother. I have one just like her at home.'

'You almost had her and my father here two hours ago with breakfast for the four of you,' Tom says with a chuckle. 'I'm the compromise. Though I'm not sure I wasn't followed.'

At even the mention of a tail, Jane finds herself automatically checking behind him—not surprisingly, the coast is clear. He's watching her expectantly, and there suddenly seems very little left to say but a stuttered, 'Um, Maura's still asleep. But I can wake her. Or just tell her you were here.'

(She feels her cheeks grow hot, wonders if the smell of sex has followed her out of the bedroom, if it's so painfully obvious what's been done and what now is.)

'That's okay. Here.' He hands over one of the bags. 'The famous blueberry pancakes. Enough for seven of you, because apparently there's no food in your house.'

'Well, that's true, but you really didn't have to—'

'You know _didn't have to_ never works with mothers like ours. This,' he lifts the other bag, 'is a few breakfast essentials I snuck out without her knowing. In case you wanted to make something yourself.' Things like _more romantic _and _your Maura_ flicker in between the words, and she doesn't understand how he can say one thing and mean so much more. 'Do you want me to carry these in for you?'

Jane shakes her head. 'Thanks, I can get them.'

'In the interest of full disclosure….' He pauses—and there's that half-grin again, and a hand rubbing the back of his neck.

'You know everything.'

'At least my mother's version of everything.'

Jane foolishly makes a face, winces at the pain of it. 'She must think I'm an idiot.'

'I think her exact words were _a tad on the reckless side_….'

_Jesus, Jane—such a great first impression. _'Would you apologise to her for me? Until I see her in person to do it myself.'

'You didn't let me finish,' he chides lightly. 'Next was _our Maura's a very lucky girl._'

There's that blushing schoolgirl feeling again, and she can't do much but look at her toes and mumble something stupidly unfitting like, 'Thanks.'

(She's too busy hoping it's at least a little true, that she can be what Maura deserves even if she isn't already.)

In the three seconds it takes her to regain her composure, he's already down the drive and opening his car door—with a wave and a shouted, 'Don't be a stranger.' And then he's in his car and with her hands full, Jane can only try to grin and wave an elbow at him.

She closes the door and listens—there's still no sound from the room down the hall. She carries the bags up the stairs past last night's casualties: Maura's discarded shirt, twisted on a banister; a sea of no-longer-frozen peas; the bouquet of mostly-dead flowers. She sets the bags on the counter and searches for a broom.

In twenty minutes, Jane accomplishes more than she usually manages in an entire weekend. She has Maura's shirt neatly folded, most of the peas have been tracked down and discarded, and she's saved a few of the more lively flowers—they're trying their best at perking up in a glass of water on the table, but they hadn't much life in them to begin with.

Then there's the coffee machine to wrestle with, eggs to scramble, a fresh loaf of bread to slice and brown, and some of the best looking bacon she's ever put in a frying pan. She stows the pancakes in the fridge for later and cooks everything else, a veritable feast that could probably feed them twice over—her stomach growls with other ideas.

Does she wake Maura with coffee or a kiss? (Those at least seem better options than the patented Rizzoli shouts and stolen covers.) Does she keep everything heated and let her sleep?

It's only when she's nearly finished fussing over breakfast and squats to sweep up the last few renegade peas from under the counter that she realises she hasn't exactly thought this far ahead.

'Jane?' It sounds a bit panicked.

'Here.' She jumps up immediately, almost hits her head. 'I'm right here.'

Maura's brow is furrowed, a robe pulled over her, but not properly cinched. Jane can't help the shame that colours her cheeks at the spark of fear in the other woman's eyes. _She thinks you ran out on her. Again. _

(She realises she's not the only one who's damaged—that everyone's scars take different forms.)

'I thought you'd gone,' Maura says—and it's a little bit heartrending the way she tries to shrug off the statement with nonchalance but doesn't quite manage it.

'I didn't want to wake you.'

_Jesus, you can't come up with something better than that?_

Saved by bacon—which cuts through the flimsy tension with a sizzling pop—and Jane rushes back to take it off the stove.

'You're making breakfast.' Maura sounds as shocked as if she'd found Jane milking a cow or chasing down criminals with a squirt gun.

'Yeah, um… Little Tom—'

'Young Tom.'

'—brought some things by.'

'That was kind of him.' Maura's eyes rake down her body and it feels like fire and a little bit like… 'Were you wearing that?'

'Yeah, why?' She holds the frying pan at length, properly looking down at her clothing for the first time.

She looks… like she's very obviously not wearing her own clothes. A camisole that's more lace-and-flowers than fabric, and silk pyjama bottoms that are ready for a flood, they're so short on her. Not terrible aside from the fact that she feels like a line-backer stuffed into a frilly prom dress—though, Jesus, are those her nipples visible through the flimsy material?

'Nothing. Really, Jane.' Maura fixes the slipping knot on her robe, and Jane just catches a glimpse of smooth stomach and breasts (her own nipples hardening against rough lace, and yes, they're as obvious as fucking neon down there). 'I like you in my clothes.'

_And I like you out of yours._

She can say what she thinks now, doesn't need to hide the way her breath catches or the quick glances at Maura's finer assets—but she wants to try for something better than that. Everything's so shiny and new, and fumbling's so easy, that even if _You're beautiful _comes out sounding more like, 'You even _wake up_ looking like you're going to a photo shoot,' it's close enough to count.

The way Maura smiles—losing eye contact in sudden shyness—Jane forgets everything but kissing her.

Luckily, once the bacon pan is on the counter, there's little else to try to remember—just breathing and touching and _God, don't fucking hurt her, Jane._

Maura is silk and lace and perfection. Jane feels a bit like frayed flannel in comparison.

(She's never felt anything as soft and beautiful against her—wonders if Maura feels her as rough sandpaper or a fine Egyptian cotton.)

It's that new and charming love-and-lust-drunk period, where there's so much skin still to memorise and every change-of-angle or finger-slip or tongue-flick sparks like the Fourth of July. Because she's known Maura for too long without knowing her like this. Even now, a good-morning kiss that's meant to be a quick peck does a nosedive to that line just south of frenetic, where everything tries for gentle but clings to desperate and needy and _Christ, why did we wait so fucking long for this…?_

And when Maura murmurs something with far too many syllables against the corner of her mouth, Jane's pretty sure there's no possible way to string it into a coherent sentence.

'What?' Even that she just about manages—on something like a gasped laugh that bubbles up with the letters.

'Mmm,' Maura hums into her mouth, and at least Jane isn't the only one finding words difficult. But then again…. 'Polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons.'

'Uh… thanks?'

Maura pulls back with a shake of her head. 'The toast is burning.'

'Oh shit!' Jane rushes to the toaster, just in time for the charred bread to pop, smoking slightly.

'It's just toast, Jane.'

(It's not perfection.)

'You can start on everything else so it doesn't get cold and I'll make more.' She's reaching for the bread and the knife, but Maura tugs at her.

'Come eat with me.'

'Bacon and eggs without toast is—'

'Still breakfast.'

Well, she can't very well fight logic like that.

They sit and eat, always touching, saying mundane things like _Pass the salt _and _You shouldn't put so much salt on your food, Jane._ And as they clear the dishes and tidy the kitchen, with small squabbles and goofy grins, this new intimacy slotting so perfectly into what they had before—it's all so charmingly domestic that Jane's almost surprised when the sticky sweetness doesn't make her want to vomit.

She could get used to this.

(There's some small part of her that already is.)

It's not until later—sixteen kisses, a shared shower, two orgasms, and half a Bruins game later, to be exact—that insecurity finds a foothold, sneaking into where they're safely huddled on the couch. This comfortably un-Maura piece of furniture has become something of a sanctuary. (She never wants to leave.)

It's Sunday. And Sundays end—and Mondays follow.

'Can we just stay here forever?'

The out-loud-ness of it is startling. (And she's not even sure if she's talking about the Cape, the couch, or Maura's arms.) All Jane knows is that right now she feels safe tucked away from responsibility and work and the possibility of disciplinary hearings—and she doesn't want all that to make _this_ fade away.

'If I thought that was what you actually wanted, then yes, we could,' Maura answers easily, a hand finding Jane's. 'But you know it's not.'

She _knows_ it isn't. (Thinks it could be.)

'Just think about it.' Her hand squeezes, her thumb rubbing circles. 'You could open up some country doctor practice and I can play Barney Fife.'

'I wasn't aware you could play an instrument.' Maura tilts her head to look at her, her eyebrows raised—the grin that follows bordering on wicked. 'Though I always thought your long fingers would be particularly well-suited to the piano.'

She says _piano _(and means it), but suddenly it sounds not very much like _piano_ at all….

_(She plays almost-forgotten chords down Maura's skin in a slow crescendo—each tap of a finger drawing out a gasp somehow perfectly in tune, and when Jane pushes deep inside and, the answering sound is like nothing she's ever heard.)_

'What? No. Well, I used to. The piano, I mean.' Jane chuckles as Maura's brow knits in confusion. 'Barney Fife was a character on an old TV show. A small-town sheriff.'

Maura mulls over this new information, playing with Jane's fingers as if they're running over piano keys. 'You would hate that.'

Probably, yes. Police blotters filled with seatbelt violations and petty thefts have never been her style. But the idea of the security of a small town, of weekends that are theirs and dinner that's always on the table by 7:30, of not having to worry about either of them being shot at or kidnapped or….

'Not all of it.'

_Jesus, Jane. Only hours in something like a relationship and you're ready to—_

'Please, if we go more than half a day without an active investigation, you start acting like a cranky toddler.' But Maura says it with affection. 'You live and breathe action, Jane. And you know I work better with the dead than the living.'

'You do better with the living than you think.' There's something deeper to add here—about how Maura's solely responsible for picking her up and putting her back together. But teasing will always be easier to find. 'I mean, you haven't _killed_ anyone yet.'

'Well there's a vote of confidence,' Maura laughs, elbowing her lightly.

'When we move, I'll put it on your business cards. Or you can make one of those terrible local TV commercials.' She points to where a mass of neon clipart is flashing and swirling across the television screen. 'If that doesn't help drum up your business, I don't know what will.'

'Jane….'

'Okay, I didn't mean _your _commercial will be terrible, just that—'

It's the sudden intensity in Maura's eyes that stops her—she's never felt anyone look so far down into her, understanding every thought and emotion, every slight movement of muscle and bone. She's never let anyone come so close (and wanted to pull them closer).

'You know nothing will change when we leave here,' Maura finally murmurs, a quiet power to her voice. 'Unless we want it to.'

'Hives.' She says it because it's easy and automatic—because it allows her to run a fingertip over Maura's neck where the welts never appear. She says it because it buys her a few extra seconds to get the truth past her teeth. 'You can't know that.'

'Location doesn't matter.' Maura shrugs like it's the easiest thing in the world—like she has a million graphs and pie charts and statistics to back up whatever she has to say. It's oddly comforting. 'You'll still be you—sarcastic, stubborn but tenacious, and gorgeous.' She pre-empts Jane's eye-roll before it actually finishes. 'You _are_, Jane. And I won't understand half your jokes and will probably bore you with facts you don't care to learn.'

(She wants to stay here forever, let her muscles turn to goo from not moving.

She wants to bolt at the next whisper, to keep everyone at a fields-length just in case.)

'That sounds….'

She doesn't know exactly. Or she does, but there are too many options—and more than half are sarcastic enough to be dangerous. (Besides, what's a word for a little bit boring, slightly terrifying, and just _so fucking perfect_ all rolled into one? It would either be intelligible or German and she'd clearly understand neither.)

'Why don't we just take it one day at a time?' Maura continues, so close that Jane feels the outline of each letter on her cheek. 'We've both accrued enough vacation days, and the department can manage without us for a while.'

The thought is a good one, but feels too much like avoiding the inevitable. The band-aid has to come off eventually—better to rip it fast.

'We might as well get it over with and just head back tonight.' Jane sighs, a little defeated as she checks her phone and shifts forward to stand. 'If we leave in the next hour, we should be in Boston before dark.'

But Maura tugs her back down, and Jane feels a soft grunt leave her as her back hits the sofa, Maura's arm draping over her to keep her there. 'We leave when you're ready, Jane. And only then.'

It seems like Maura's usual putting-her-foot-down. A politely bossy version of what will suit them both that's not up for discussion. And Jane almost gives in to the bubble of protest automatically rising in her chest.

Almost.

Because Maura kisses her shoulder before resting her head there, and Jane suddenly gets it, what's in those words and that gesture, the two of them snuggled up together.

(Everything.)

Maura's giving her time.

To heal, to calm, to get to know herself and them again. For forgiveness and further intimacy, to discover what _we _and _us _and _ours _is before adding everyone and everything back into the equation.

(She wants to cup it in her hands like a firefly, watch the light winking through her fingers.)

She doesn't have to—knows it will be there in a blink and in five minutes and tomorrow morning.

Jane wraps an arm around Maura and pulls her close, trust and love tingling in her fingertips as she rests her cheek on the top of Maura's head. 'Maybe one extra day then.'

(Or two. Or three.)

* * *

_The End_

**A/N: **First off, I'm so sorry for the delay in posting this last chapter. Last week got away from me, and I really wanted to take the time to make sure this was right. Thank you so much to everyone who's read, reviewed, followed, and favourited this. You guys are fantastic, and I hope you enjoyed the ride. :)


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